


Wars We Fought, Things We're Not

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Garridebs, Happens pre-story, Hurt John Watson, Infant Death, It's For a Case, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Peril, Parentlock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Protective Mycroft, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh come, John. Could be fun,” Mycroft taunts, accompanied by an eyebrow arch he’s gotten far too good at. “Besides, it’s not as if it’s your first time pretending to be a couple.”</p><p>Five months after John's world has fallen apart, Mycroft sends the consulting detective and his doctor on a case that neither is prepared for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So many tropes, so little time. I realize that this has been done before (and probably better), but I just couldn't help myself.

He’s on step three of seventeen when he realizes he forgot the milk. It’s just a testament to how distracted he’s been since everything fell apart because John never, _ever_ forgets the milk.

He allows a moment of brief debate on whether to just say, “piss it” and continue on to the roaring fire he hopes is in the grate above, or zip up his coat once more and turn back into the early evening rain.

He decides on “piss it,” and climbs the remaining fourteen steps, thoroughly wishing he had indeed turned around when he spots Mycroft hovering near the fireplace, usually smug smile pulled into something grim. John's stomach drops and he immediately looks around for Sherlock, only to find the detective sprawled out on the sofa, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but. John breathes a bit easier. 

“Evening,” he greets, eyebrows rising in a silent question, which earns a shrug and an eye roll from Sherlock and an exasperated sigh from his brother.

“John.” Mycroft inclines his head and adjusts his grip on the umbrella at his side. “I’ve just been explaining a situation that could use your assistance.”

“ _My_ assistance?” He knows he's not incapable, but it's not often that Her Majesty's right hand calls on him personally.

“Well, both of yours,” Mycroft amends, sparing a withering glance for Sherlock who merely sinks further down into the cushions of the sofa.

“O-kay,” John says, voice hitching over the word because Mycroft’s solicitations are never uncomplicated things. He shrugs out of his damp, heavy coat, starts the kettle, and leans against the doorjamb, crossing his arms as if bracing for a verbal blow.

“Two months ago," Mycroft begins, "a junior official and his family, one child, went missing while on holiday in Dorset. Five weeks ago, an MP and his family, two children, also disappeared in relatively the same area. Three weeks ago, both men turned up dead."

John frowns. "While that's horrible, what exactly does it have to do with us?"

Mycroft inhales, and John doesn't miss the way his eyes flick to Sherlock. "They showed up dead, alongside their husbands.”

Sherlock goes still. To the untrained eye, he might appear aloof and uninterested, but to John, his brain is already running on all cylinders.

“Oh," John breathes. He has a feeling he knows where this is going, but before he can get there - "And the kids?” he finds himself asking and Mycroft’s expression is grim.

“Never found.”

The kettles whistles and he jumps, flushing slightly as he pushes off the jamb and pulls mugs out from the cabinet: one for himself, one for Sherlock (which Sherlock won’t realize is next to him until it’s gone cold), and one for Mycroft (whose cup is always more for show than anything else). He tenses as he opens the refrigerator door, always bracing for whatever gruesome surprise might await in the crisper, but for once, his shoulders sag in utter disbelief.

“You bought milk.”

“Pardon?” Sherlock’s voice sounds genuinely confused from where it drifts in from the living room, but perhaps he’s just gotten that much better at feigning innocence. Or indifference.

“All right," John sighs. "What did you destroy?” He glances around, attempting to catalogue their belongings and possibly looking for scorch marks. 

“What?” Sherlock asks. 

“In the flat," he says, coming into the living room. "What did you destroy?”

Sherlock sits up. “It wounds me that you think the only reason I buy milk is to make up for something I’ve – ”

“The kettle, the microwave, the toaster, my _toothbrush_ ,” John rattles off, ticking each offense off with a flick of his finger.

“Yes, all right. Fine,” Sherlock huffs, pulling his dressing gown around him as he stands and moves to the window.

“He didn’t buy the milk, I did," Mycroft says to the shock of absolutely everyone. Even the skull seems to say _you must be joking_. "Relax, Sherlock, your reputation of being completely useless when it comes to household tasks is still intact.”

John bristles a bit at that, though struggles to come up with an example to refute the claim. “You did,” he instead states flatly, because why on god’s green earth would _Mycroft_ stoop to buy them _milk_. Unless… “No. Absolutely not. I see what you’re doing here.”

“And what am I doing, John?”

“I’m not going undercover.”

"You haven't even heard the particulars." Mycroft leans forward with a downright evil glint in his eye and John fixes him with a look.

"I can guess." 

Sherlock turns from the window with renewed interest and immediately John curses his “gauntlet thrown” take on life.

“Oh come, John. Could be fun,” Mycroft taunts, accompanied by an eyebrow arch he’s gotten far too good at. “Besides, it’s not as if it’s your first time pretending to be a couple.”

John flushes scarlet and doesn't dare look at Sherlock.

"That's right. I know all about the Brighton case," Mycroft continues, twirling his umbrella like the master villain he likes to think he is, and John wishes he could just sink into the carpet. It was two days of sometimes handholding to gain access into an office. Hardly anything to write home about.

“So we’d – we’d need to…” he trails off, waiting for Mycroft to fill in the details.

“Get married,” Sherlock says as Mycroft overlaps with “Act married.”

Two very different meanings for two very small, three-lettered words.

“ _Act_ married,” Sherlock amends with an uncharacteristic throat-clear. John frowns in his general direction as Mycroft ploughs ahead.

“We’d have to fabricate a child, of course.”

John chokes on his tea. “Sorry, what?”

“A child. Young preferably. The others that were taken were all under the age of four.”

“Mycroft – ” Sherlock tries to interrupt, but John’s insides have turned to ice. He can't put his hands on knees, it would be too obvious, but right now, his ears are ringing and his breath is just a bit too short. 

_“We’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.”_

_“Oh… Okay.”_

_“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”_

_“Worth a try.”_

"Right." He nods to himself, heart beating entirely too fast as he inhales deeply against the sudden tightness in his chest. "Right."

He wouldn’t call his swift escape to his bedroom ‘fleeing’ per se, but it’s a very near thing.

xxxxxx

“That went well.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters a “Piss off, Mycroft,” his voice growling in a tone that surprises even himself. “You didn’t mention anything about a baby,” he continues more softly, sparing a glance at the ceiling, well aware that the walls are not that thick.

“They disappear _with_ their families. How else are you going to be adequate bait?” Mycroft’s perpetual sneer falters and he taps his umbrella against the floor. “It’s been five months.”

“Four months, three weeks, and five days,” Sherlock amends, always happy to one up his brother, though this win in particular is far more bitter than sweet. “There is no quota when it comes to mourning a child.”

Mycroft’s face evens out, as if someone had smoothed the lines and dispatched his air of haughtiness. It looks… odd. “I can only imagine,” he says quietly. “Had I thought John would have been up for it, I would have contacted you weeks ago.”

And that’s what catches him off-guard; that sense of _caring_ that Sherlock just assumed Mycroft was born without.

He’s not wrong. It has been nearly five months since Mary’s hand was forced by a computer code Moriarty claimed not to exist and a _Did you miss me?_ that he still sometimes hears in his nightmares. Five months since her past caught up with her. Five months since her indiscretions cost the life of an innocent.

Sherlock doesn’t regret much, but the loss of John Watson’s daughter is something he will atone for for a long time to come.

“It’s John’s choice,” he finds himself saying, even as his magnificent brain whirs with various motives and possibilities. “It’s up to John.”

“Well, look at that.” Mycroft’s tone is just the right balance of mockery and sincerity. “You’ve grown up.”

Sherlock seriously considers throwing the skull at his head, but Mycroft’s reflexes aren’t what they used to be, even after the weight loss. He’d probably end up concussed and in hospital for days on end. A not entirely unpleasant thought.

If only it wouldn’t disappoint Mummy so.

xxxxxx

The bed dips beneath his weight as he sits and drops his head in his hands.

John is used to Sherlock’s mental schemes, but this is taking it a touch too far, cocaine benders and faked proposals in the name of The Work notwithstanding.

All things considered, though, he supposes this is actually quite tame. It’s not like they’re _actually_ getting married. Still, the thought of playing house with someone when his own fell apart so spectacularly not all that long ago makes him feel somewhat ill. And he tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that he’d be playing house with Sherlock, of all people.

His fingers push through his hair and he groans before flopping backward on the bed and staring at the cracked, stained ceiling. The mattress dips on the left side, coils having molded to his body after endless nights of restless slumber. He’s always preferred sleeping closest to the door, next to the nightstand and the gun that rests in its drawer.

Life used to be so simple: tea, job, crime, take-out, bad telly. Though he and Sherlock used to blunder through life like bulls in a china shop, they now circle each other as if on eggshells. A carefully choreographed dance, yet no one knows how to lead.

He does not miss Mary. Well, he misses the Mary he thought he had pledged his life to, but even his feelings toward her had grown complicated long before she put a bullet in his best friend.

He doesn’t like what he and Sherlock are now. Careful. Hesitant. Strained.

_“You chose her.”_

Those words haunt him in both his nightmares and his waking hours. But in the end, he didn’t. In the end, he chose Sherlock, and he will continue to do so until the end of his days, if he’s truly honest with himself.

For what is John Watson without his consulting detective?

_“Nothing ever happens to me.”_

xxxxxx

A clock somewhere ticks off the silent seconds as Mycroft refuses to break eye contact with his insufferable younger brother, but footsteps creak on the stairs, ensuring the monotony is about to break no matter the fireworks that might come with it.

“We’ll do it,” John’s voice comes from the doorway and Mycroft watches something akin to pain cross Sherlock’s face. Interesting. “We’ll take the case.”

Mycroft will deny the elation he feels until his dying day, choosing instead to rise from John’s chair and offer the man in question a tight, yet grateful smile. “Excellent. I’ll have Anthea draw up the necessary documents.”

“Documents?”

“Marriage certificate and the like."

“Ah.” It’s to John’s credit that he only pales somewhat.

“The rings are on the table, sized accordingly,” Mycroft says, nodding to the velvet box next to Sherlock’s latest disaster. “Itinerary will be delivered tomorrow with the rest of the files.”

“Does the baby come with the documents too or does she get her own folder?” John’s voice slices through the thick air, silencing the non-existent conversation.

“We can discuss those arrangements tomorrow,” is Mycroft’s quiet reply, but even he can’t deny he’s unsettled. Contrite, even.

Sherlock finally seems to be spurred into action as he whips around and glares at him accusingly. “Where the hell did you procure a baby?”

But Mycroft merely raises his eyebrows in a way that tells both men they really, really don’t want to know.

“Preference on gender?”

John’s lips part in an utterly lost way, but Sherlock swoops in and mutters “Boy” as he passes into the kitchen, taking the mug out of John’s limp grip and refilling it.

Boy, of course. The significance is not lost on Mycroft.

“Ta,” John murmurs as Sherlock practically shoves the hot mug back into his palm, and Mycroft takes a moment to truly observe them – the detective and his doctor. The madman and his blogger. Two sides that don’t yet know they create a whole. _Idiots._

“Is this really the best idea?” Sherlock whispers as John drifts closer to the table and the ring box which lays upon it. The fact that Sherlock is asking him this at all is reason enough to call out an honor guard.

"You'll be in capable hands."

“You’re sending me in there with a baby. Have you met me?" Truer words were never spoken and yet –

“I’m sending you in there with a baby and _John Watson_. I'm more confident than you could ever know."

Sherlock’s lips part and he inhales sharply, but whatever he was about to say never passes his lips. Perhaps there were no words to be had. After all, Sherlock isn’t known for holding his tongue.

Mycroft slips his arms into his raincoat and tugs the collar tight around his neck.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with the rest of the details,” he murmurs, holding tight to the curve of his umbrella. ““Be careful, brother mine.”

Sherlock dismisses him with a casual flick of his fingers, but his eyes never quite leave the carpet, which is all the evidence Mycroft needs.

xxxxxx

The front door closes with a _thud_ as Sherlock hears a _click_ to his right, fact enough that John has opened the ring box Mycroft so _annoyingly_ left on their kitchen table.

He wants to glance over; wants to pick apart the look on John’s face as he glances at their supposed wedding rings, but he doesn’t dare.

Deducing John in this moment might be more than he can bear. So he settles for padding back to his chair, sweeping the dressing gown around him as he flops down with more vigor than necessary.

John doesn’t glance up, though. Sherlock knows this because he knows what it feels like when John’s gaze is upon him.

“We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, because even though John has already acquiesced, Sherlock needs the added reassurance. He needs to give John one more out.

“Four dead parents, three missing children? Yes we do,” is John's quiet and simple reply.

And Sherlock both loves and loathes that John is that damn noble. And it’s that nobility that causes his eyes to track across the carpet, up the chair and latch onto the box in John’s hand. And once his gaze is there, he cannot turn away.

The light catches the silver of the rings and throws patterns across John’s face as he turns them over in his hand. Platinum, Sherlock notes, not gold. Different from the last ring that claimed residence on the fourth finger of John’s left hand.

Something not entirely unpleasant clenches in his chest, a longing ache that he dares not identify. It curls around his muscles, winding its way through his veins as he very consciously commands his heart to keep normal time.

It doesn’t listen.

“Indian or Chinese?” John asks, breaking him from his internal panic attack as the box in his hand snaps shut with a _clap._

“Thai, I think.”

“Thai, it is.”

They’ve gotten good at this. Pretending all is well. Pretending that their lives have settled into some semblance of normalcy – or at least what’s normal for them – but they haven’t. Not really. Not since Sherlock asked John, _“This is what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”_

He can hear John dialing the Thai restaurant around the corner and placing an order he knows by heart.

And now, as Sherlock stares at the velvet box far beyond his reach, he wonders what on earth he’s gotten himself into.


	2. For Those Days We Felt Like a Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are put into action and preparations are made. Or basically, John and Sherlock wonder what in the hell they've gotten themselves into.

_**3:37am**_  
**John. – SH**

 _ **3:51am**_  
**Wake up. - SH**

 _ **4:04am**_  
**JOHN. – SH**

 _ **4:16am**_  
**You can’t tell in my tone,**  
**but this is desperation – SH**

_**4:43am**_  
**BORED. – SH**

 _ **5:02am**_  
**Please? – SH**

John squints an eye open at a reasonable hour of the morning and reads the texts that had come in approximately every ten minutes beginning at 3:37am, smiling in that sort of fond way he always does when Sherlock is being a bit more ridiculous than usual.Kicking the covers back, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself to standing with a groan, remembering days long ago when his joints didn’t ache quite so much.

The wooden stairs are cold beneath his bare feet, and he pads to the kitchen, stifling a yawn as he flicks the kettle on without really registering doing so. His morning is routine by now – muscle memory – which is why he doesn’t notice Sherlock sitting in his chair until he pulls the milk from the refrigerator and turns to pour it in his mug.

“Jesus,” he jumps. 

“Not quite," Sherlock dryly replies.  

“You’re up.” 

“Obviously.”

“You’re never up this early. Unless…” John places his mug on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, “you never went to bed.”

“Of course I went to bed,” Sherlock mutters steepling his fingers and pretending to focus on a spot just beyond John’s head. “You made it perfectly clear to me four months ago that I was no longer allowed to – what was it? 'Treat my body like a rubbish bin.”

John murmurs his agreement, yet continues to watch the too-thin man sprawled across his chair. “And how much sleep did you get? Because I have it on good authority that you were bored out of your mind at approximately 4:30 this morning. And seeing as it’s only 8am now, I could hazard a guess.”

“Transport." 

“Tosser.”

Sherlock quirks a smile and John takes a sip of his too-hot tea, counting it as a minor victory. The Earl Grey does nothing to soothe the knot that has settled in the pit of his stomach, though, ever since Mycroft strolled out of their flat with a smirk on his face and the promise of danger on his lips.

He resolutely doesn’t look at the ring box still resting on the table.

“What’s that?” he asks instead, nodding to the folder currently residing on Sherlock’s lap.

“Anthea’s been by.”

“What, already?” John checks the clock on the wall to make sure it isn't actually later than he thinks it is. It's not. Unless Sherlock's messed with it again. Which isn't outside of the realm of possibility. 

“Mm,” Sherlock hums and flicks another page as John fidgets in the doorway. “You’re having second thoughts,” he says somewhat thoughtfully and John's eyebrows hit his hairline.

He clears his throat, taking another sip of liquid courage if only to stall for more time. “It’s just a big risk.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s always a risk.”

“But it’s never with a _child_ ,” John hotly retorts. 

Sherlock’s laser-sharp gaze leaves the papers in front of him, a miracle if there ever was one, and locks John in his place like a pin through an insect. 

“Despite what you might think, Mycroft isn’t totally heartless.”

“He was going to send you into almost certain death,” John quickly replies, that particular memory never far from his mind as his chest clenches painfully.

“A small price to pay.”

“Losing you is never a small price to pay,” he snaps, cursing his hoarse voice and wobbly delivery. He’s always played his emotional cards close to the vest, but Sherlock Holmes is proving him to be one poor poker player. Indeed, the man himself is staring at him with that slightly tilted head and more than curious expression that makes John feel as if he’s being x-rayed. Through cloth and skin and muscle and tissue, down to the very bones beneath. 

Something passes across Sherlock’s face, an understanding perhaps, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. “We may be going in undercover, but we’re by no means going in alone. Here,” he says, handing John the file. “Security measures. Surveillance. They’ll have a man in the hotel with us. Continual sweeps of the neighborhood. GPS trackers.”

“Sherlock, you cannot guarantee that child’s safety.”

“ _You_ can.”

John scoffs, the sudden tightness in his throat nearly cutting off his air supply. “Christ, I couldn’t even save my own child. What makes you think I –” but he stops himself because the words are literally abandoning him; stuck somewhere between his larynx and his lips. He swallows hard, but it does nothing to ease the way. 

Sherlock's brows are pinched in something akin to pain. John hasn't seen that look on his face since he sat in his chair with a bullet hole in his chest as John muttered, _"Look at you two. You should have got married."_ It was a cheap shot, but he wasn't exactly feeling magnanimous at the time. 

“We can keep it from happening again, John.”

The words are quiet, _so_ quiet, and John doesn’t know until this moment that they’re exactly what he needs to hear. They aren’t being reckless. For once, they might actually be thinking before leaping. What a novel concept.

He swallows again - once, then twice - pushing down the pain and the guilt to somewhere dark and deep, hoping it stays hidden long enough for him to figure out how he wants to face it.

“Head on, I think?” Sherlock asks and John gapes, truly wondering if the detective has actually mastered the art of mindreading.

“Sorry?”

“The files. I figured you’d want to meet it head on,” he replies, frowning slightly as he nods at the stack of papers in John’s hand.

“Right,” he dumbly nods, opening the folder and forcing his brain to focus on the words.

“Get dressed,” is Sherlock’s swift instruction as he stands and strides to his bedroom, dressing gown billowing behind him. “We’re to meet Mycroft in twenty minutes." 

“Oh lovely,” he mutters, glancing down at his pyjamas. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“You’re welcome!” Sherlock replies before slamming his door, John’s sarcasm utterly lost on him.

And there’s that damn, fond smile again. One he couldn’t rid himself of even if he tried.  

xxxxxx

Sherlock flips through his array of suits with the speed and dexterity of a mail-sorting machine, if only to give his hands something to do; a way to expel this nervous energy thrumming through his limbs.

His fingers land on the plum shirt (of course) and he yanks it off the hanger with more force than necessary, taking a moment to curse his brother and every government official above and below him for putting them in this position. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t foreseen the emotional complications this case would bring with it.

Still, he thinks he underestimated.

John is a recent widower. A father without a daughter. Everything about this case screams 'not good' and yet Sherlock knows that John's better angels won't let him walk away from this. Not when they can stop the orphaning of another child or the pain of another parent.

Showered, dressed, and coiffed, he strides back in the living room, stopping short at the sight of John in his chair, flipping through the case files as if he never left. As if the past few years of separation and longing followed by reunions and heartbreak were nothing but a fever dream. 

John lets out an undignified snort, shaking Sherlock from his melancholy. “He’s got a sense of humor, your brother. You’ve got to give him that.”

“What?”

John tilts the file and Sherlock moves closer and perches on the arm of the chair to read over his shoulder. It creates an intimacy he doesn't usually allow himself. “I don’t get it," he says after a moment of staring at the marriage certificate. “He made our anniversary January 29th.”

“So?”

The file falls a bit in John’s hand, his first clue that this is a bit ‘not good.’

“Sherlock, we met on January 29th.”

“Oh.” And there’s that feeling again, the feeling he’s been getting more and more in John’s company: like the ground’s just dropped out beneath him and he’s suspended in mid-air for the briefest of moments before plummeting to the hard earth.

John chuckles softly, standing and nearly upending Sherlock to the floor. “Don’t expect you to remember stuff like that.”

But Sherlock should.

Sherlock never deletes John.

“Shall we?” The man in question asks and only then does the detective realize that John has put on his coat and is standing by the door.

“Right,” he nods, wondering how his grasp on the situation became this untenable. He needs to get his thoughts, his _feelings_ under control. It’s so pedestrian, this second-guessing. Though truth be told, he’s been second-guessing himself when it comes to John ever since he asked, _“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_ Indeed, the relatively diminutive army doctor has been perfectly complementing and yet utterly surprising, continually throwing Sherlock for a loop with his heart, his warmth, and his frustratingly righteous moral compass. It’s absolutely unacceptable because they’re about to pretend to be a _couple_ for Christ's sake and it won’t do to have Sherlock jumping every time John looks at him sideways.

“Sherlock.”

It’s all he can do not to flinch as John places a hand on his arm.

“Are you all right?”

He clears his throat. “Fine. Why?” His tone is clipped and John’s hand falls from his jacket.

“No reason,” he says, warm expression immediately shuttering. _Damn._  

John heads for the door and Sherlock knows they can’t leave like this. They can’t face Mycroft and his minions and his stupidly well-thought out plans already falling to pieces.

“Forgetting something?” he blurts out, the first words coming to his lips.

“What?” John looks down at himself and even pats his pockets, but no, his face seems to convey that everything is in order.

Sherlock wiggles his fourth finger and John’s lips part in a silent “oh” as he glances down at his bare hand.

“Right.” 

“Might as well start now," Sherlock reasons on entirely selfish grounds. "Get used to it – ”

“No, you’re right,” John overlaps, nodding and walking to the table to pick the velvet ring box up. “His and his, yeah?” he tries to chuckle but he must know his attempt is positively pathetic because it dies quickly on his lips.

When it looks like he’s not going to go further, Sherlock steps forward and takes the box from his hand, popping the slightly larger one out and grabbing John’s right hand.

“Other one,” John murmurs and Sherlock immediately curses, much to John’s delight.

He had one opportunity to place a ring on John Watson’s finger and he’s bollocksed it up already.

The ring slides on perfectly, of course, because Mycroft is just that good, he thinks with an internal eye roll. But just before thoughts of his brother derail his sudden burst of joy, John takes the remaining ring in one hand and Sherlock’s left in his other, effectively stealing all thought from the genius’s brain.

It must last only seconds, but to Sherlock it’s an eternity; his cold fingers in John’s warm palm. A piece of metal sliding over his knuckle, binding them to one another for all intents and purposes.

“Fastest wedding I’ve ever been to,” John murmurs, forcing a smile, but his eyes are soft when they inch up to land on Sherlock’s face. “Once more unto the breach?”

Sherlock manages a convincingly put-upon sigh to cover the panic he feels when John releases his hand. “God for Harry, England, and St. George.”

xxxxxx

The cab ride is quiet, save for the ads droning on in the background, and John relishes this proverbial calm before the storm as he gazes at the passing London scenery.

To a casual observer, he might seem tranquil, but his body is humming with adrenaline and his mind is buzzing with questions: how are they going to pull this off? How can they expect to go undercover with a child? Who in their right mind thought to put _them_ in charge of another human being?

But that thought is immediately followed up by a memory, one that makes his chest ache for far too many reasons:

_“Don’t panic. None of you panic. Absolutely no reason to panic.”_

_“Oh, and you’d know, of course?”_

_“Yes, I would. You’re already the best parents in the world. Look at all the practice you’ve had.”_

_“What practice?”_

_“Well you’re hardly going to need me around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way.”_

“You chose a boy for me, didn’t you,” he suddenly blurts out, gaze settling on the back of Sherlock’s head as the other man stares out the window.  

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean.”

“Yes you do.” It’s soft, his voice betraying the smile on his face, the smile which grows wider when Sherlock resolutely does not look at him. 

The platinum ring on his finger seems to weigh ten stone, pinning his hand to the leather seat, inches away from Sherlock’s right. He should move it, but he doesn’t ( _can’t_ ) and there it remains until they pull up in front of Whitehall.

John’s never liked Mycroft’s dungeon of an office. It reminds him too much of the war and the many bunkers and caves he stepped foot in. The Queen and country memorabilia doesn’t help matters and he can feel his posture slipping back into Captain-mode the longer they walk through the halls. Not that it ever leaves him, really.

He can practically feel the tension seeping off of Sherlock as they get closer and closer to their destination, so he steps nearer and gently takes Sherlock’s wrist. “At ease,” he whispers and Sherlock’s shoulders slowly relax. John lets go but not before registering the uptick of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

Before long, they reach the door and Sherlock slams his palm against it, all the knock Mycroft is going to get, and sends it flying back to bang against the wall opposite.

“Ah, good. You’re here,” Mycroft drawls and John rolls his eyes at the theatrics.

“You sure know how to make an entrance,” a voice says to their left and John finds himself smiling before he even claps eyes on the man.

“Lestrade? What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock snaps and John pushes by him to shake Greg’s hand.

“What he means is, ‘Greg, it’s good to see you.” It’s been too long since he’s seen the DI. Too long since he’s seen anyone, really, apart from the madman at his side. He must get better at that.

 But then again, is anyone ever really _good_ at grieving?

“He’s your backup. Part of it, in any case,” Mycroft explains, taking a seat once more and gesturing for them to do the same as he passes out case files. “Profiles on the victims. Transcripts of interviews with the locals. Leads that have gone cold.”

John should be listening, but his eyes have fallen on the bag in the corner of the office, out of which sticks a small plush Paddington Bear, complete with blue raincoat and red hat. His heart thunders and he can't help but think of the bear Harry had gotten for the nursery, which ended up in a donation bag headed towards god knows where. Hopefully towards a child that will cherish it appropriately. 

“John?”

“Mm? Yes?” He receives two matching sets of raised eyebrows and feels like a boy caught cheating in school as he stares back down at the paper in his lap. He really must focus. 

“I was saying that Lestrade will be in the inn with you, we’ll have two teams on duty at all times outside, in addition to continual sweeps around the town."

“You said something about GPS trackers before?” John asks and Mycroft smiles smugly.

“At least someone was paying attention,” he directs at Sherlock, much to his brother’s consternation. “Yes, we have GPS trackers.”

John waits for further explanation but nothing comes. “And they are…?”

Mycroft smiles and nods towards the files they clutch. “Already on your person.”

Confusion is the first thing he feels, though he doesn’t put it past Mycroft to hide a tracker on them in their sleep or some equally nutty idea, but –

“Of course,” Sherlock breathes, bringing his left hand up to his face and inspecting the ring around his finger. “Not an entirely bad idea.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Mycroft drawls.

“Oh.” John glances at his own ring and blames his slowness on the fact that he’s essentially getting married and becoming a father all in one day. Speaking of, he might as well mention the elephant in the room. “And the baby?”

Mycroft eyes him for a moment and he doesn’t dare break the gaze. He swallows, but his heart is attempting to beat its way free of his thoracic cavity as the man across the desk raises his eyes to the doorway at someone standing behind them. Two someones.

And John, god help him, cannot turn around. Not yet.

He registers Sherlock standing to his right as Greg breathes out a curse to his left. Mycroft’s eyes are still on him, but he daren’t glance up from the paperweight on the man’s desk.

“Name?” Sherlock asks.

“Connor,” Anthea replies.

“Full name?” is the follow up and Mycroft chuckles.

“Well that depends on you. What would you like his surname to be?”

“Watson,” is the detective’s immediate reply and John feels slightly faint. Thank god he’s already sitting.

There’s a moment of silence and he knows they must all be sharing what can only be a loaded look concerning him. What’s happened to Captain Watson now? It’s beyond time he pull himself together, and he does just that: standing on shaky legs and turning to find a sight he’d never, ever thought he’d see:

Sherlock Holmes holding a baby.

Not quite a baby, though. Eighteen months, maybe, going by his size and the frankly hilarious look of alarm on his face as Sherlock holds him as far away from his body as possible. Two pairs of blue eyes studying each other like a final exam. And that’s perhaps what’s most disconcerting: how alike the boy looks to both of them. Dirty blonde, curly hair. Blue eyes. Electric blue, like Sherlock’s.

“Connor,” he says without meaning to and the boy’s gaze flicks over to him before darting back to man holding him like a ticking bomb. “Sherlock, that can’t be comfortable for him.”

“How do I – I don’t…” Sherlock trails off and for once, it looks like that brilliant brain short-circuits. 

“Here,” John murmurs, snapping into action and gently reaching out to pull Connor from his arms.

The boy is light, far lighter than he was expecting, and he fits perfectly against John’s chest, small blue eyes exploring the contours of John’s face.

“Work on that, would you, Sherlock?” Mycroft groans. “It can’t look like you’re holding your son for the first time.”

“He will,” John replies, gaze never leaving the child staring back at him.

“You’re a natural,” Greg says, coming up next to him to run a hand through the boy’s thick curls. Connor spares him a glance before finding the buttons on John’s cardigan far more interesting.

“How – ” he begins to ask, but Mycroft beats him to it.

“Nineteen months, just under two stone, average for height and weight. Born July 17th.”

“And his parents?” Greg asks.

“Didn’t want him.”

“Human error,” John finds himself saying and he ignores the way Sherlock sharply glances at him. He shifts Connor in his arms and the boy grunts at being jostled, completely unaware that they are discussing his abandonment. John envies his innocence. 

Connor seems more than content to sit in his arms and examine the threads of his jumper, though, so Mycroft continues with his debriefing as John tries to remember to pay attention.

Sherlock hovers, more so than usual, which is saying something. He can’t seem to figure out where to look, eyes continually darting between John and the boy in his arms; each creature its own fascinating experiment.

Before long, Anthea is handing him the diaper bag from the corner, complete with Paddington Bear toy and he takes it mechanically, feeling the weight of it immediately leave his shoulder as it finds its way onto Sherlock’s.

“They’ll likely have surveillance on at least the hotel, if not your room. If you do manage to become the intended target, do try to be convincing,” Mycroft warns, before his expression turns sour. “And a gentle reminder that they won’t be the only ones watching.”

“We’ll keep it PG,” John assures him, swallowing down the sudden burst of anxiety at his own joke. The fact that Sherlock chokes beside him, causing Greg to thump him on the back, doesn’t help matters. “And in the end?” he asks at the door, the child heavy in his arms. “When this is all over?”

“We take him back,” Mycroft replies, his tone hovering dangerously between sympathetic and regretful. 

John hates him for it.  

xxxxxx

Sherlock fortifies himself for what he's about to say, but no amount of forethought prepares him for what actually leaves his mouth:  

“As much as I hate to say it – and my hatred is a fearsome thing to behold – Mycroft’s right.”

The look of surprise on John’s face nearly makes up for the foul sentence that just passed his lips.

“When he said I can’t look like I’m holding him for the first time," Sherlock clarifies. "He’s right. This has to be precise if we’re going to pull this off.”

“Then here, practice,” John replies with a smile, promptly passing the child across the cab and plopping him in his lap, the boy making a noise of indignation which Sherlock is horrified to find he duplicates.  

“See?” John says, light dancing in his eyes. “Nothing to it.”

“The child would beg to differ,” he mutters, staring down at the boy who glowers back, a blonde curl falling over his forehead.

"His name is Connor," John says flatly and Sherlock nods, tight smile pulling at his lips.

"I remember," he replies quietly, tucking that errant curl back off the boy's face. “I think we should say you’re his biological father.”

“What? Why?” John's startled expression would be comical if not for the situation that they find themselves in. 

“Blonde,” Sherlock replies as if that’s the most logical answer. “Were he mine, he’d likely have dark hair.”

“His mother could be blonde.”

“Technicality.” He’s already moved beyond the conversation, examining Connor’s ears and nose and fingers. “He’s so… small.”

John snorts. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” And he’s alarmed to find that he doesn’t actually. He has no idea what to do when it comes to children of any sort. He has no experience. No data. Even if he’d read something on it, it’s long since been deleted. For why would the detective and his blogger ever have use for such information?

If he’s honest with himself, he had planned to start a little nook in John’s wing, full of rules and advice and milestones for John’s baby, but that nook will remain empty. And Sherlock will never admit its purpose, because Sherlock is rarely honest with himself.

And that’s the moment that John places his hand on top of his and Sherlock's thoughts, his methods, his _reasoning_  just… stops.

“What – what are you doing?” Oh dear god, he tripped over his words. Sherlock Holmes does not trip over his words.

“You’re not the only one who needs practice,” is John’s reply. He wears a simple smile but Sherlock can see the anxiety beneath it. The hesitance surrounding the unasked question of whether or not this is okay.

Sherlock turns his hand palm up and John’s fingers thread through his.

Baker Street comes both too soon and not soon enough. 

xxxxxx

The flat had gained some new additions in their absence, not counting the child who spent his first thirty minutes in Baker Street squirming in Sherlock’s arms in an effort to get away from Mrs. Hudson’s kisses. And when Connor turned a watery gaze on him, Sherlock sympathized.

There was now a crib in John’s room, baby monitors, and food that was more… amenable to a toddler. Even Sherlock had to admit that was good thinking on Mycroft’s part.

The real panic attack of the day, though, doesn’t come until bedtime, long after the excitement of the afternoon caused Connor to pass out in his peas.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” John offers, gingerly ascending the stairs while simultaneously trying to wipe the baby’s sticky fingers with a wet flannel.  

“If we're to be a couple for the sake of appearances," Sherlock sighs, "it seems counterintuitive for you to sleep on the couch."

John pauses before pressing his hand to the door of the bedroom. “Are you suggesting I sleep in your room?”

“Obviously.”

“Right.”

And Sherlock would think it all settled if not for the little hitch in John’s breath as his voice ghosted over that little five letter word. This is new territory for both of them, but he expected John 'Three Continents' Watson to adapt better than he is at the moment. It's wreaking havoc on Sherlock's anxiety levels and he's already determined that only one of them is allowed to freak out at a time. And frankly, damn it, it's his turn. 

John places Connor in the crib, completely oblivious to Sherlock's inner turmoil, and Sherlock watches his every move as best he can, filing them away in a room in his mind palace assigned for cases.

They watch the child breathe deeply for a moment, tiny fist coming to rub across his cheek before he settles and let's sleep take him.

"Come," he murmurs, gently pulling John away because if he doesn't, he's honestly not sure the man would leave. They descend once more and get ready for bed (John in the bathroom and Sherlock in the bedroom) and emerge, both in pajamas, glancing at the bed uncertainly.

“Do you have a side?” John asks and Sherlock blinks owlishly. 

“What?”

“A side,” John repeats. “One you prefer to sleep on.”

“Not that I’m aware of." 

“O-kay. I’ll take right then, shall I?" he asks, moving to the other side of the room. "You can have closer to the door.”

Sherlock knows John prefers to sleep closer to the exit, yet he lets him have this moment. This semblance of control on a situation that is rapidly spinning out of it. To be perfectly honest, he really couldn’t care less; he spends more time sleeping on the couch (and sometimes the floor) anyway. 

But _John_ is crawling into his _bed_ and his mind palace is not equipped to handle that. The knowledge that John sleeps in flannel trousers and a Bart’s t-shirt. That he pulls the covers up to his shoulders and that his default position is on his right side, off his injured left. Which means he’s facing Sherlock and the detective is finding it particularly difficult to breathe, even though John’s eyes are closed.

“’Night, Sherlock.”

He swallows and slips under the sheets on the left side. “Goodnight, John.” 

And he stays that way, on his back, rigid, never moving; as if someone had drawn a line down the middle of the bed and left explicit instructions not to cross it.

But John’s breath has evened out, lulling Sherlock into some semblance of relaxation, and before he knows it, he’s blinking his eyes open blearily and glancing at a clock that tells him it’s just after four in the morning.

His first thought is to roll over and go back to sleep, limbs all akimbo, but then he remembers that he fell asleep with significantly less room to spread out and that his bed is now definitely one person short.

And only John could get him to stumble from his bed when sleep seems like such a welcoming prospect. Only John could make him pad across the cold hardwood floor and trip up the stairs to the third floor. And only John could cause his breath to stall utterly and completely in his chest at the sight Sherlock finds at the end of his journey:

John, sitting in the middle of his former bedroom-turned-nursery, elbows on his knees as he stares at the child breathing evenly in the crib. And since the army doctor’s always been an open book to his consulting detective, Sherlock reads him like _The Sunday Times._ Grief, curiosity, excitement, terror, all in the set of his shoulders and the messiness of his hair.

“I’ll just be a minute, Sherlock.” His voice is rough, but whether it’s from sleep or something more complicated, Sherlock isn’t sure. And he'd rather not ask. Not yet, anyway. 

He should go and leave John to his moment, but something roots him to the ground. An invisible tether keeps him from leaving because he’s not entirely sure John wants him to go.

He inches closer and sees that the other man is still wearing his ring. They both are, in fact. There’s no need, not now in this moment, but there they are, glinting in the pale moonlight streaming in from the window.

So Sherlock leans down and does the only thing he can think of; the only thing that seems _right_ : he presses a feather-light kiss to John’s soft, blonde hair, lingering for a moment to inhale his shampoo and something distinctly _John._

“Practice,” he murmurs before turning and leaving, missing the way John’s eyes close, only opening once again to watch him go.


	3. For Those Times When Love’s What You Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a fake kiss, Sherlock, for our fake relationship. Surely you can suffer through it for a moment or two.” John’s words sound more hurt than he thinks he means them to, and Sherlock chooses not to delve deeper. They each should get a pass while navigating such unfamiliar territory. 
> 
> “For science,” he finally says.

The first thing John registers upon waking is the feel of his t-shirt sticking to the flushed skin of his back. And though it’s June, their flat should not nearly be this warm; not with the breeze floating in through the cracked windows, ruffling the basic curtains Mrs. Hudson had managed to hang when Sherlock wasn’t looking.  

Years of nightmares have made him used to being disoriented upon waking, and he squints a bleary eye open and catalogues all that’s a bit… off: the mattress that dips on the wrong side and the sheets that have a higher thread count than his own. But perhaps the most telling piece of evidence: the consulting detective whose shoulder his face is currently mashed against.

John leans back and can’t help but smile at Sherlock’s sleep-rumpled attire. He looks so young like this: hair a wild mess of curls on the pillow and expression smoothed out by the kind of tranquility only good dreams can bring. He slowly pulls his arm back from where it was draped across Sherlock’s stomach and attempts to untangle their legs, wondering how on earth he became such a clingy sleeper. With Mary, he barely moved from his back, yet now, they’ve become a jumbled mess of limbs in the middle of the bed. He eventually extricates himself. Sherlock barely stirs.

He spots the baby monitor on the nightstand and immediately the events of yesterday slam back into his psyche. Undercover. Rings. Baby.  _Connor._

He pulls his dressing gown on quickly and tiptoes across the room, avoiding the creaky floorboard by the door as he exits into the hallway. The flat is too quiet and it’s too late in the morning for the child not to be awake. Panic immediately seizes him and he takes the stairs two at a time to the third floor, pushing the door to his former bedroom open, only to be greeted by the baby happily banging two plastic blocks together in his crib. His blue eyes immediately latch onto John and he holds up the toys as if to say _See? Blocks._

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you,” John murmurs, chuckling lowly, aware of the still active monitor next to the crib whose twin, which sits on the bedside table next to Sherlock’s head one floor below. “Come on, up we go.” He lifts the baby with ease and settles him on his hip, a move both natural and foreign, and he takes a moment to catalogue it. To remember that this is what it feels like to have a child in his arms. He ignores the tightening in his chest.

“Breakfast?” he asks and Connor nods gravely as if breakfast is the most serious of businesses, blonde curls dancing across his forehead. And John places a kiss against the warm skin, pausing slightly to register the action. It was done like a habit, quick and without thought, as if he’d been doing it his whole life.  

John makes eggs, not too runny, and settles Connor in the highchair that Mycroft dropped off for them, fiddling with the straps until he’s 99.9% sure the baby is secure. Connor glares at him as if to say _Really?_ and it's so Sherlockian that John has to pause for a moment.

“Yoo hoo,” Mrs. Hudson croons before immediately ignoring John and swooping down to the child with yolk all over his face. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“He did actually,” John says, automatically grabbing another mug from the cabinet for his landlady. “No fuss.” 

“That’s because he’s got you two looking after him,” Mrs. Hudson says with a smile and John wishes he had her confidence. “You did remove the body parts, though, didn’t you?”

He laughs as he pours the tea and nods. “Mycroft did. Much to Sherlock’s dismay.”

“He’ll live,” she coos, wiping Connor’s hands and face and lifting him from the chair.

John’s glad Mrs. Hudson doesn’t seem to mind the sudden appearance of a toddler in the flat, though he’s worried that she hasn’t actually grasped the fact that Connor is not a permanent addition. Her reaction to the plan was... volatile at best.

_“What do you mean he’s for a case?” she asked with incredulity, clutching the baby tighter to her chest as if Sherlock were about to snatch him away and put him under a microscope._

_“We have to go undercover. As parents,” John clarified, warily eyeing the consulting detective and the landlady as they faced off in the sitting room._

_“So, what, you’re just going to toss him out like a prop when you’re through?”_ she gasped, hand to her chest as if to stave off a fainting spell. 

_And John was about to argue, but Sherlock, shockingly, beat him to the punch._

_“It’s not like that,” he snapped, tone so fierce that John’s eyes widened. “He’s not... a prop… He’s… _It's -_ ” Sherlock seemed to struggle with words and explanations he wouldn’t have even bothered with a year ago. “It’s different.”_

John still isn’t sure where Sherlock’s defensiveness came from. He’s never that…insistent; that desperate to prove that what they’re doing is okay. Truth be told, he’s never really _cared_ before.

John watches with a soft smile as Mrs. Hudson gently bounces Connor in her arms, pointing out the various oddities in the apartment, including the skull on the mantle. And Connor watches and nods in all the appropriate places as if he understands exactly what he’s being shown. Frankly, John’s shocked Connor has taken to them so well. Or as well as an unusually quiet, inquisitive one and a half-year-old can. He was taken from a foster home with a high turnover rate, according to Mycroft, so perhaps he’s used to a revolving door of people. He’s more at ease with John than Sherlock, though, probably because Sherlock holds him like a vest of semtex. 

“When do you two head out?” Mrs. Hudson asks and John stops washing the plate in his hand.

“Later this afternoon, I think. Mycroft made an itinerary somewhere.” He frowns because he’s usually the man with the plan. The one who has all of the train times, hotel reservations, and checkpoints memorized because Sherlock sure as hell won’t, but this case… this case has him feeling like a man adrift. And he suspects it has a great deal to do both with the child in his living room and the ring on his fourth finger.

And the man whose body he woke up wrapped around.

xxxxxx

Sherlock blinks his eyes open once he’s sure John is occupied enough with Connor in the kitchen. He had been awake when John got out of bed, the ability to feign sleep one of the things Sherlock prides himself on, but he hadn’t dared move; choosing instead to catalogue the soft puffs of John’s breath through his t-shirt, the feel of John’s leg where his flannel trousers had ridden up. The ache in Sherlock’s chest when John woke and abruptly moved away.

He shakes his head and bites back a scoff. Sentiment.

Kicking the covers off, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, acclimating his toes to the cold hardwood floor. His instinct is to grab his dressing gown and swan into the living room, but he stops and turns, staring at the bed and the mess of cotton he and John have created. He should make it. Tidy up a bit. It’s what John would do, and does do, every morning after he wakes and before he takes his coffee. He folds the sheets with military precision and smoothes the comforter until there isn’t a single crease in the fabric.

It takes Sherlock ten minutes and three tries before he considers it up to Captain Watson’s standards. He then pauses for a moment and wonders why he actually _bothers._

Deciding not to analyze it too closely, he whips the dressing gown on and pads into the kitchen, the smell of eggs and coffee lingering in the air. John is leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, and even from the set of his shoulders, Sherlock can tell he’s smiling. And then he hears why.

A giggle erupts from a spot he can’t see and he finds himself drifting closer, wanting to know what has caused Connor such delight. John doesn’t hear him approach, which is why he jumps slightly as Sherlock peers over his shoulder.

“Oh you’re up,” he says, but Sherlock can’t focus on him (for once in his life). No, the entire width and breadth of his attention is on the child sitting on the carpet, attempting to feed plastic blocks to the skull in his lap.

“I promise he won’t break it,” John murmurs, but that concern is not what’s stolen his voice. “I can’t promise he won’t slobber all over it, though.”

Sherlock can feel a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he drifts further into the room. John brushes past him, dressing gown against dressing gown, as he crouches down next to the boy with the creaks and groans that come with age. And Connor glances up at John with all the trust in the world as he holds out the skull; the trust that Sherlock assumes shows on his face any time he too looks at the man who saved him.

“For me?” John asks, gently taking it and wiping some excess drool on his t-shirt. “Why, thank you.”

Sherlock begins to register the fact that he hasn’t taken a breath in entirely too long, his lungs burning in protestation, but then Connor crawls into John’s lap and all hope for breathing is just _gone_.

“Such a dear,” Mrs. Hudson coos, running her fingers through Connor’s blonde curls and chuckling as he buries his face in John’s chest at the sudden attention. 

“Lestrade was right,” Sherlock finally murmurs, cursing the crack in his voice. “You’re a natural.”

John smiles a smile that’s both elated and sad, and the detective marvels at how such limited features can express such a spectrum of emotion.

“Can you say ‘good morning’ to Sherlock?” John asks, attempting to coax Connor out, but the boy merely shakes his head, reaching blindly for the skull in John’s other hand.

“He can’t call you ‘Sherlock and John,” Mrs. Hudson points out, bringing the room to a grinding halt. “Not if you’re to be his parents.”

“Right.” John’s gone rigid where he sits on the floor. “No, I guess not. Wouldn’t exactly help the cause, now would it. Um…” he trails off and picks at the carpet. “Do you have a preference?”

And it takes Sherlock a moment to realize the question is directed at him.

John is constantly asking what Sherlock’s preferences are; is consistently making Sherlock the priority, from which side of the bed he wants to what name he’d like their fake son to call him.

Their fake son.

Those three words cause his stomach to jolt in a not entirely unpleasant manner.

“You seem more of the ‘Daddy’ type,” he quietly replies. And he knows the words will hurt but he says them anyway, because he knows that’s what John referred to himself as when he spoke of his unborn child. A daughter that never got to see just how special her Daddy actually is.

And sure enough, John swallows hard, blinking unseeingly at the boy in his arms before giving a short, stiff nod.

“I could be ‘Papa,’ I suppose,” Sherlock continues. “Father’s’ too formal.”

John nods again as Mrs. Hudson nearly bursts into tears.

“Daddy and Papa.’ How wonderful!” She claps her hands together and Connor follows suit, causing John to crack a smile and press his nose into the boy’s curls.

Sherlock wonders what he smells like. Perhaps baby shampoo and powder, ketchup, and a bit of John, if he’s lucky. ‘Adorable’ is a word that Sherlock refuses to admit is in his vocabulary, but if it were, that’s exactly what this moment would be.

 _Too much. Too fast._ He inhales shakily and twists his sleeves between his fingers. 

“Well, I’ll leave you boys be. Lots to get ready for!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims as she pushes herself up from her spot on the carpet, and Sherlock reaches out to help her up, much to the surprise of everyone in the room.

“I’ll just… um…” he begins and John’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“Did you just ‘um?”

Sherlock wants to say ‘no,’ but he knows there’s no way he won’t sound like a defensive, petulant child so instead he flees to the relative safety of the bedroom, not even bothering to unlock the door when John leaves a cup of tea on the floor outside.

He busies himself with packing, an entirely novel prospect. He’s not sure he’s ever actually packed a suitcase before; John handled it when they went to Baskerville and even Mycroft (or one of his minions) saw to his belongings when he was shipped off to rehab.

It takes all of 30 minutes to sort through their things and he packs them together in one bag, trying not to focus on the sight of his and John’s things lying side by side, as they should be. And his effort to not look at the shared suitcase has him registering the sound of laughter and splashing water.

He pokes his head into the bathroom to find John sitting on the floor, molding Connor’s hair into a soapy mohawk.

“What are you doing?”

John cocks his head and raises an eyebrow.“Knitting a sweater. What does it look like I’m doing?”

Sherlock says nothing, merely inches into the bathroom further as Connor sends water at John’s face.

“Thanks so much for that,” the doctor drawls, ruffling the boy’s wet hair and ruining the spikes in the process. “He needed a bath. Mycroft wants us to leave in an hour.”

“I packed,” Sherlock finds himself blurting, needlessly gesturing to the bedroom and the suitcase he knows to be lying on the bed.

John stares at him as if he just announced a manned-mission to Mars. “Seriously? _You_ packed?”

Sherlock's jaw drops in indignation. “I can pack!”

“My things, too?”

“I just took the jumpers you wear the most, eliminating the ugliest of the selection. It didn't leave me with much, but it was a start.”

“Oi!” John looks delightfully put out and Connor is staring between them with the kind of confused worry he imagines any child must feel when mum and dad fight. “You even packed my pants?”

Sherlock’s grin turns devilish. “I didn’t realize you had such a colorful collection.”

John cups a handful of water and throws it across the bathroom, catching Sherlock right in the face, much to Connor’s delight. He uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the water from his eyes, shooting John a glare that contains no real heat.

“An hour, you say?”

John nods as Sherlock sits down next to him, carefully taking the cup from the side of the tub and filling it with warm water.

“Close your eyes?” he says to Connor and the boy must understand, or must just see the cup and know, because those blue eyes clamp shut and he tilts his head back as Sherlock empties the cup over his sudsy head. “Good boy.”

“And you say _I’m_ the natural,” John murmurs next to him and something warm and vibrant and _good_ sparks in his chest, vibrating from his heart, through his veins, all the way down to his fingertips. Fingertips that John is currently examining under the fierce scrutiny of his gaze.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“We’ll have to kiss,” he blurts out and Sherlock’s brain short circuits.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If we’re going to pull this off," John inhales, "we’ll have to show affection.”

“Yes, I had thought of that,” Sherlock replies, and it’s a total lie. He had been so worried about rings and certificates and children and _packing_  that he hadn’t actually contemplated the more… physical aspects of a loving, albeit fabricated relationship.

“So…” John trails off, waiting for Sherlock to at least catch his meaning, but the great consulting detective’s at a loss. John huffs and scrubs his hands over his face. “Look, I don’t fancy our first kiss being in front of total strangers.”

“First fake kiss,” is the reply, one which he immediately regrets when a shadow passes over John’s face. _Backtrack._ “Connor’s a stranger," he offers, but his attempt at levity is met with an eye roll.

“Just… come here," John gestures.

“What? Now?” And if the timbre of his voice has gone up a few notches, John mercifully doesn’t call him on it.

“It’s a fake kiss, Sherlock, for our fake relationship. Surely you can suffer through it for a moment or two.” John’s words sound more hurt than he thinks he means them to, and Sherlock chooses not to delve deeper. They each should get a pass while navigating such unfamiliar territory.

“For science,” he finally says.

“Shut up,” John murmurs, fingertips grazing the edge of Sherlock’s jaw as he leans forward, breath ghosting across Sherlock's chin. John's eyes flick up for a moment and they lock gazes. Sherlock swallows hard and inhales, before thinking _sod it,_ and firmly pressing their lips together. 

John makes a surprised noise at the back of his throat and Sherlock's brain briefly goes offline.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not this. He’s always heard the more gullible and romantic of the population refer to butterflies and fireworks and the like, but no amount of anecdotes or clichés could have prepared him for John Watson’s lips against his own. They’re slightly chapped and taste of coffee, but then John’s hand comes up and gently holds the side of his face, fingers sliding under his ear, thumb rubbing along his cheekbone, ring resting cool against his skin, and it’s sensory overload. He pulls away with a gasp, heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribcage, as John blinks blearily up at him. Silence reigns in the small bathroom for a moment, and even the baby is quiet in the tub, staring at them both as if understanding the absolute _enormity_ of the moment.

He finds himself needing something. Anything. To be alone. To do it again. To not be sitting on the tiled floor of the bathroom, panting harshly in the quiet. John clears his throat and shifts, readying the towel so he can pull Connor from the water. “There. That wasn’t so bad, now was it.”

Sherlock thinks he manages to shake his head, but he’s not entirely sure. All he knows is that he’s terrified and he needs _more._ More data, more control, more _John._

But before he can even begin to deduce the thoughts running rampant in his head or rebuild the walls in his mind palace that John just managed to decimate, the good doctor is placing a wet, squirmy, towel-covered child in his lap and Sherlock is given no choice but to move forward and dissect later.

“Come on. Let’s see what damage you’ve done to my wardrobe.” John stands with a groan, but not before brushing his hand against the exposed skin of the detective’s ankle.

A palm print seared onto his skin for none but Sherlock to see.

xxxxxx

At 12:34pm, a black Land Rover Defender pulls up in front of 221B – quite possibly the exact same one they rode to Baskerville in – and the keys are left on the hall table by one of Mycroft’s ghosts.

John notices that the stress levels have been steadily climbing ever since that moment in the bathroom. He and Sherlock fight about the packing and the weather and the hotel accommodations, all in the time it takes to walk from the front door to the waiting car, as Connor cries for attention.

John hands him the stuffed Paddington Bear and he immediately calms, yet glowers as if to say _I’ll play with this now, but it’s by no means a long-term appeasement._ He’s strapped into the car seat that has appeared just as magically as the car and John moves around and opens the door on the right side.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, a look of incredulity passing his face.

John stares at him. “Getting in the car?”

“You never drive.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and juts his chin out. “I like to drive.”

“You’re a terrible driver,” John laughs. “Some brilliant thing passes through your genius brain and on the road is the absolute last place your eyes are.”

Sherlock pouts, yet John can pinpoint the exact moment when the detective concedes defeat. “I suppose. With the baby and all…” he mutters, going around the car and sliding into the passenger seat, leaving John absolutely agape.

The baby. Sherlock never admits defeat that quickly, even if it’s in someone else’s best interest. John turns to Connor in the backseat, happily gnawing on the ear of his bear.

“Miracle worker, you are.”

Connor smiles and kicks his feet, babbling and pointing as John pulls away from the kerb.

It takes them nearly three hours on the M3, but they eventually move off of the motorways and onto the winding, hilly back roads, the scenery growing greener and the atmosphere growing quieter. John checks in the rearview mirror to find Connor out cold, chin lolling on his chest, Paddington Bear clutched in his tiny hands. A soft smile crosses his features and Sherlock glances over, catching him in the act. The detective then turns and watches Connor take the kind of low, steady breaths only deep sleep can bring, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.

“This isn’t that hard.”

John clears his throat. “Parenting is a lot more than strapping him in a car seat and taking a drive.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock snaps, but without any real venom. And John knows that this is perhaps the most adrift the detective has ever felt. There’s no room in his grand mind palace dedicated to babies. No pamphlet that can give him every answer he craves. And John takes comfort in that, in the fact that they’re both in this together, basically making it up as they go along.

The air changes as they get closer to the coast and John cracks the window to inhale the smell of salt water as the cry of an occasional seagull pierces the quiet, not-London air. The inn is a beautiful stone building right off the High St. and John parks the car and laughs as Connor points out the window at a passing dog in awe. He gets out and immediately gets to work on the car seat buckles, vaguely registering Sherlock going to the boot and pulling out their bags. There’s a moment of fumbling and a muffled curse, which John ignores in favor of pointing out the beach in the distance to the child in his arms.

“John, how the _hell_ …?” Sherlock finally sputters and John turns, watching in amusement as Sherlock struggles with the pram.

“Sherlock Holmes, thwarted by a baby buggy.”

“Stop smiling,” he snaps.

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are. I can see it on your face and, great, now Connor’s smiling, too.”

At that, John bursts out laughing, hiking the baby higher on his hip. “Sherlock, here – ” He moves forward as if to help, but Sherlock snatches the pram away from him.

“We don’t need this – I told you I can carry him.”

“Almost two-year-olds get shockingly heavy when held for hours on end.” John shifts Connor again, his arms already feeling his weight.

Sherlock scoffs and leaves the pram in the back of the car, grabbing their bags, and slamming the door with finality.

“Papa’s being very silly, isn’t he,” John murmurs and Sherlock’s jaw drops when Connor nods his head in agreement.

“Well _Daddy’s_ just old hat at this by now, isn’t he,” the detective spits out and something inside of John pangs. He knows Sherlock regrets the words almost immediately, eyes widening with an expression that screams ‘a bit not good’ as he ducks his head and studies the pavement.

“Sherlock,” John clears his throat and steps closer, taking him by the wrist. “Don’t think, not for one moment, that I have any idea what I’m doing.”

“I know, I’m…” but the apology never quite leaves his lips, and John turns before Sherlock can squirm further and enters the Inn, knowing the detective will follow in his wake. He always does, after all. 

The front desk is a dark oak and a young woman (blonde, mid-thirties) greets them with a smile. “Welcome to The Tidewater. Checking in?” 

“Yes, uh, Watson. Could be under Holmes, though.” And dammit, he really should have read Mycroft’s file more carefully.

“Ah, here we are,” she says after a moment. “Watson-Holmes, actually."

“Convenient, that,” he chuckles, but it sounds fake even to his own ears. He can feel Sherlock hovering over his shoulder and his suspicions rise, wondering if the woman in front of them has anything to do with the murders of the previous couples, but her gaze doesn’t seem to linger on them longer than politeness requires.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she greets when Connor reaches out for the bell on the desk.

“No, no, darling. It’s not a toy,” John says, grabbing the boy’s hand and ignoring the endearment that fell from his lips entirely too easily.

“Oh it’s okay.” She dings the bell, much to Connor’s delight. “We have a whole box in the back just for such occasions.”

“I bet,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles and John nearly jumps, forgetting the detective was behind him.

“You’re on the third floor, room 306,” she begins, handing them two old fashioned keys. “Breakfast is served from 6-10am and here’s a map to help you around town. I’m Mia, if you need anything."

“Ta, Mia,” John says, taking the key and map in his spare hand as Sherlock handles the bags.

“Beautiful child you have,” she calls as they head towards the stairs and, for a moment, John’s at a loss for what to say. It’s not _his_ child. He didn’t partake in Connor’s making and yet, society expects you to just take credit instead of offering some long-winded explanation –

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies with a smile he’s long since perfected. “We’re quite fond of him.”

John feels Sherlock’s hand on his back and he offers a stilted nod in Mia’s direction as they ascend the stairs to their room.

“It’s not like you to freeze over a compliment. Especially not from a beautiful woman,” Sherlock goads and John rolls his eye.

“Not now, Sherlock.”

And it’s to the detective’s credit that he remains silent until they enter their room and he drops the bags inside the door as John lays Connor down on the queen-sized bed to change his nappy Sherlock goes to the window (because god forbid he learn how to do this) and pulls the curtains back, allowing the late afternoon sun to stream in through the window. John can hear the waves and the seagulls through the glass, even though it’s latched.

Connor stares up at him as John snaps his trousers once more, before grabbing his foot and tugging on it just to get a smile out of the boy. It works.

“Now what?” Sherlock asks, no longer facing the window as his right hand clasps the wrist of his left, rocking on the balls of his feet. A telltale sign for boredom if there ever was one.

 “We’re on holiday, we might as well act like it.” John shrugs, wondering why he’s nervous all of a sudden. “Walk?”

Sherlock seems to deliberate for a moment – perhaps he’s thinking of the struggle with the pram – before his face comes together in something resembling resignation. “Fine.”

John sighs. Wonderful.

xxxxxx

Sherlock understands that small towns have their own quaint traditions, but he didn’t expect something like this.

The early evening sky is lit up with bright lights glowing from the various rides and fairy lights that hang from poles interspersed throughout the field. Children laugh and scream on machines that whirl and swing and drop, and Sherlock stands there, mouth open in horror at the sight of it all.

“It’s a fair, Sherlock, not the gates of hell.” John nudges his side as he moves forward, pushing the pram that contains a squealing Connor pointing at all of the bright things to see.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, yet follows at a much more begrudging pace.

“I haven’t seen a fair like this since I was small.” John gazes around in something that Sherlock wouldn’t call wonder, but it’s close. He imagines it’s the feeling one gets at remembering something long since thought forgotten. “Come on, let’s play a game.”

“Must we?” Sherlock asks as John heads toward the row of stalls and he hopes he sounds as put-upon as he usually does because, in a unique turn of events, he’s pretty sure he’d follow John anywhere.

The game has something to do with bottles and rings and he assumes John wins because the next thing he knows, John is placing a stuffed pirate in his arms. How did he…

Sherlock looks at him in wonder and he knows it’s coming perhaps even before John does, but this is something married people do, right? Win things at fairs for each other? And the recipient of said gift should express their gratitude in some way? Yes, he knows it’s coming before John does, which is why he delights in John’s startled noise of surprise when Sherlock presses their lips together. 

“I should win you prizes more often.” His voice is rough and Sherlock’s stomach lurches.

“You’re enough,” he replies without thinking, and something on John’s face makes him wonder how much of this is actually pretend. He finds he’s not sure he wants to know.

_Get it together, Holmes._

They part without speaking and continue to explore the grounds, John pushing the pram and Sherlock’s arm bumping his as they walk. John buys them something called ‘candy floss’ and pushes a piece of it in Sherlock’s hand, much to the detective’s dismay. The sticky candy stains his fingers blue and he’s already wishing to go back to the inn, but John is _smiling_. And John hasn’t smiled in oh so long.

So Sherlock puts the fluffy concoction in his mouth, making a noise of surprise when it dissolves on his tongue.

“Good, yeah?” John asks with a knowing smile on his face.

“Acceptable.”

“Git,” he replies fondly, shocking Sherlock to his core when he grabs his wrist and closes his lips around the candy floss in the detective’s hand.

And he wonders if this is what it’s like – that notion of infatuation that is overly romanticized in books and films. That feeling of falling yet knowing you’ll never hit the hard earth.

And Sherlock finds himself hoping that that’s true because, as John licks his blue-stained lips with a smile that's absolutely breathtaking, he’s honestly not sure he’d survive the impact.


	4. For Those Nights When I Couldn't Be There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll allow John to drag him to the beach to parade around as a one big happy family. In fact, he might even enjoy it a bit. 
> 
> Not because they have a case on, not because it’s part of the role he has to play, but simply because he’s quickly learning that he would do anything to get John to smile like that once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, you guys, I'm so sorry for the wait. Blame 'To the Sticking Place.' That thing was a beast.

John wakes with Sherlock draped half across his body, and this time, he doesn’t panic.

Not much, anyway.

He attempts to keep his heart rate somewhere in the vicinity of normal, seeing as Sherlock’s ear rests over the left side of his chest, and John wouldn’t put past him to be able to clock his vitals even while in the middle of an REM cycle. He somewhat succeeds, too, and takes the moment to catalogue the species “mad detective” while in his sleeping state.

With his chin tilted to his chest, the tips of Sherlock’s curls are tickling the edge of John’s nose, making him smile as he smells the detective’s exorbitantly priced shampoo and something distinctly him. It usually hovers in the air of the flat, giving John that feeling of _home_ whenever he steps through the door. It’s… nice.

The grey t-shirt is stretched across Sherlock’s back as the detective’s right arm reaches across John, his left tucked up under him, trapped between his torso and John’s side. His right ankle is hooked around John’s, cold toes mingling in the early morning light and John smiles softly and buries his nose in Sherlock’s curls once more, allowing himself this moment without all of the _what is this? what are you doing?_ that goes with it.

Across the room, Connor pulls himself to his feet in his hotel-provided cot, smiling happily now that John’s awake and jumping up and down to show that he’s ready to be lifted from his bedtime prison. He remains silent, though, as if he knows that he shouldn’t make noise while Papa is still sleeping.

John slides to the side, carefully extracting his arm from under Sherlock’s body and pausing to hold his breath as the detective shifts and murmurs before settling once more. John exhales and continues to shimmy his way to the edge of the bed, eventually swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress and digging his toes into the floor.

For someone who never sleeps, the detective is like the dead when does actually drop off.

Chuckling to himself, John stands with a muffled groan and stretches, feeling some warmth bloom in his chest when Connor mimics him.

“That was very good,” John murmurs, reaching down and pulling the boy to his chest. “Shall we go get some breakfast? Leave Papa to sleep?”

He knows this is pretend – he _knows_ it is – and yet he can’t help but savor the feel of the child in his arms and the way the words ‘Papa’ and ‘Daddy’ roll so easily off his lips. He can’t help the flutter in his stomach (or is it his chest?) when he sees the ring residing on his fourth finger. Nor can he help the overwhelming feeling of _fondness_ that hits him whenever he glances in Sherlock’s direction. It’s more than fondness, though. It’s something else entirely that’s threatening to swallow him whole. And John would let it, he would, if he knew Sherlock would be there to pull him back from the depths.

Or join him.

But Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way.

xxxxxx

Sherlock wakes and is gripped with an immediate panic.

John’s not on the other side of the mattress. Nor is he in the room. Shocking how quickly one becomes accustomed to the feeling of another body in the bed. In the bed, in his mind palace, in his life.

Sherlock at least remembers he’s not in 221B before he goes swanning out into the hallway in nothing but his dressing gown and silk trousers. He grabs his hastily discarded clothes from the night before and pulls them on, barely remembering to zip his flies as he hops his way out the door, pulling on his shoes as he goes.

He knows it ridiculous – John’s probably getting coffee or doing some other basic human thing that John insists on – but… Sherlock has to check. He has to know for sure.

The scent of bacon and eggs lingers heavy in the air, growing stronger as he descends the three flights of stairs to the lobby.

“Morning, Mr. Holmes,” Mia calls as he passes the desk, but he pays her no mind. John will make him apologize for it later, but as long as John is around to do so, Sherlock will be more than happy to oblige. Just this once.

He stumbles into the dining room, eyes scanning the small gathering before alighting on the only man to make the breath leave his body faster than a car in the Monaco Grand Prix.

“Sherlock, over here – ” John begins, but Sherlock’s face must look a fright because John immediately goes into what the detective likes to call ‘soldier-mode:’ he stands at attention, shoulders kicking back and expression pinching as if braced for battle. “What’s wrong?” His tone is clipped, hand hovering over his hip and the non-existent weapon that usually hangs there, and Sherlock finally exhales a ragged breath.

“You weren’t there, John,” he practically spits, but he knows it’s fear that fills his eyes, not anger. “I woke up and… and you weren’t there. Neither of you were,” he finishes, swallowing heavily as he runs his hand through Connor’s curls.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry, love,” John whispers, the endearment sounding like he’d been saying it for years. He gently takes Sherlock’s other hand and gives it a squeeze. “You so rarely sleep, I wanted you to get as much as you could. And he was hungry.” He gestures down to the boy, and only then does Sherlock actually register the mess that’s all over the baby’s face.

It’s not enough, though. He needs to feel them both for just a bit longer and he holds tight to John’s hand as the doctor rubs comforting circles along the back of his palm.

“Hey,” John murmurs, lifting up on his tiptoes and nudging Sherlock’s jaw with his nose. “You all right?”

Well he’s not _now._ Not after _that._ Sherlock finds breathing to be an issue again and John places his free hand over the other man’s rapidly beating heart.

“Calm down, love,” John whispers. “We’re here, we’re fine.”

And Sherlock wonders how John does that – how he manages to do _this_ so easily. This comforting thing. It’s what people in relationships do, right? Comfort one another?

For once, Sherlock freely admits that he has much to learn.

John smiles when it appears that Sherlock’s heart rate is entering stable territory again and he removes his palm from his shirt, but doesn’t let go of his hand. Sherlock leans forward, as if seeking out the touch once more.

“Come on,” John says as he sits, “have some breakfast.”

He’s about to protest, but John fixes him with a look that halts the words on his tongue.

“Set a good example for your son,” he says pointedly, eyes darting to Connor who’s still staring at Sherlock like he’s not sure whether to be delighted by him or scared of him. Which, truth be told, is not far off the mark.

But then John’s words truly sink in and he freezes once more, gaze staring unseeingly into the distance and lips parting in astonishment.

_Your son._

Oh. That’s what that feels like.

John gives him a gentle tug and Sherlock slides quietly into the vacant seat next to Connor, finally releasing John’s fingers and feeling suddenly lonelier without them.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Mia says as she approaches and Sherlock feels a bit chagrined at his earlier rudeness. John must be rubbing off on him.

“Forgive my curtness earlier, I was in a rush.”

She waves him off like it’s water under the bridge, but John cocks his head and looks at him like he just announced he’s quitting detective work and joining the Royal Ballet.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

“No – ”

“Yes," John interrupts, "he’ll have some toast and jam, please.”

Mia smiles like they’re just the most adorable couple she’s ever seen and Sherlock manages to wait until she turns to roll his eyes. Progress.

“Oh, Mia?” John asks and Sherlock curses him. “Do you have any suggestions on what to do today?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully and glances out the window. “If you haven’t hit the beach yet, today’s a good day for it.” 

Sand, sun, and surf. Three things Sherlock hates.

“Ta, we’ll add it to the list,” John replies with all the smoothness of a seasoned lothario. And so busy is he mentally calculating reasons to get out of what no doubt will be a forced family outing, he doesn’t realize that Mia and John have carried on the conversation without him.

“We have a writer here for the weekend. He’s working on a mystery novel set in Dorset,” she says with the kind of pride reserved for small towns as she gestures towards the table in the window where a man sits with his laptop in front of him.

Sherlock does a double take when he realizes said writer is none other that DI Lestrade. “How quaint.”

John kicks him under the table and he barely manages to stifle his grunt.

Sherlock knows the man is clocking the conversation, yet not once does he glance in their direction. Sherlock really should give him more undercover credit. But then John laces their fingers together under the table and all thought utterly and completely halts.

“Right, we’ll be sure to check it out,” John is saying, running his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles as he wraps up the conversation.

Mia bids them farewell and John waits until she’s well out of earshot before turning to Sherlock and narrowing his eyes at him.

“We need to work on your people skills.”

“I’ve made it 36 years without them. Why start now?”

Connor nods and Sherlock feels the first genuine smile of the day cross his face.

“See? Our son agrees with me.”

“Don’t start,” John growls, but it contains no heat as he turns back to Connor and hands him a piece of fruit. The baby happily gnaws on it, eyeing both of them like he’s disappointed in their emotional constipation. Granted, Sherlock could be projecting his own feelings on the matter.

But as he watches John expertly feed Connor in between taking his own sips of tea, barely missing a beat, he wonders how he managed to adapt to this new way of life so well. But then again, John’s always been better at the _feelings_ bit. Not much, but a little. The relationships, the emotions… the living.

Which is why he’ll allow John to drag him to the beach to parade around as one big happy family. In fact, he might even enjoy it a bit.

Not because they have a case on, not because it’s part of the role he has to play, but simply because he’s quickly learning that he would do anything to get John to smile like that once more.

 xxxxxx

John eyes Sherlock for the fifth time in as many minutes as they make their way down the path through the dunes, leading to the beach.

His reaction that morning had been...extreme. Granted, Sherlock seems to operate in extremes, oscillating from one end of the spectrum to the other, but that morning had been... odd. John is often out of the room, out of the flat even, before Sherlock wakes and he’s never panicked on such an epic scale before. Sure, there’s potentially a serial killer on the loose targeting families like the one they’re pretending to be, but still. It was out of character.

Sherlock likes the chase, the game, the thrill and sod all the consequences, John thinks semi-bitterly, wincing slightly as he unfolds the blanket Mia loaned them on the sand. Because, if he’s honest with himself, that’s not quite true:

_“Sorry! Sorry, again!... Sorry.”_

_”You. It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”_

_“Give my love to Mary.”_

_“To the best of times, John.”_

He swallows thickly and shakes his head, sending the memories scattering in the breeze. He once said that Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way, but now, with the evidence laid out before him, he’s honestly not so sure.

Sherlock sighs, overly loud, breaking John from his stream of consciousness. “Bored.”

John smiles and pulls out a book, settling on his stomach on the blanket. “It’s a holiday, Sherlock. Relax.”

“I don’t _relax,_ ” he hisses and John snorts.

“Don’t I know it.”

Connor is currently making quite a mess with a pale and shovel, flinging sand every which way, but taking great delight in doing so, so John leaves him be. Sherlock fidgets some more, before jumping to his feet and making a show of staring off into the distance.

“Do I look like an adequate target?” he asks, flapping his hands. “Shall I wave my arms around a bit?”

“Sherlock, sit down.” John grabs the hem of his trousers and tugs, bringing Sherlock to the blanket in a graceless heap. “You’re supposed to look like you enjoy our company.”

Sherlock looks mildly miffed for a moment. “Of course I enjoy your company.”

John and Connor grace him with matching skeptical expressions, before the baby proceeds to swing his shovel like a battle-axe.

“No, no, love. It’s not a weapon,” John laughs, showing Connor how to dig in the sand as Sherlock watches them quietly.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” John asks distractedly as he tries to keep Connor from putting sand in his mouth.

“This.”

“Sherlock, you’ll have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid,” John chuckles, finally deeming Connor ready to fill the bucket on his own and going back to his book.

“I want to help – I want to be _good_ at this, but I…” he trails off and digs a stick into the ground.

“Sherlock,” John says softly, “you are good at this.”

As if to drive the point home, Connor crawls over and wordlessly climbs into Sherlock’s lap, shoving the small bucket under his nose as if to say _Look!_

Sherlock looks startled for a moment, before his hands slowly come up to hold the baby around the waist so he doesn’t topple off his lap.

“That’s… good. Very good,” he says, smile widening when Connor positively beams.

“See?” John quietly says and Sherlock rolls his eyes, but secretly looks pleased when he thinks John isn’t watching.

John listens to the waves crashing on the beach for a moment, before Sherlock clears his throat.

“There’s a visitor’s center on the High St. Thought I might check it out.”

John nods and sticks his bookmark in between the pages. “Good idea. Want me to come?”

Sherlock shakes his head and John tries not to feel disappointed. “Won’t be long. Meet you back at the hotel?”

John pauses – this is supposed to be a _family_ holiday after all – but eventually acquiesces. “Maybe I’ll go and find us a place to eat tonight. Mia said there’s a string of really good restaurants by the wharf.”

Sherlock mutters something that sounds childishly like, “Mia said…” but the breeze coming off the water makes it difficult to catch.

“Here, take Connor with you,” John says, and Sherlock looks at him like he’s just asked him to climb K2.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks, tamping down the fact that yes, he does have some reservations, but that will do absolutely nothing for Sherlock’s confidence. “Besides, people will be more likely to help you if you’ve got an adorable child with you.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Is that true?”

“Mostly.”

“Should have invested in one _ages_ ago,” he mocks, drawing a laugh from John, which dies off when he takes in the troubled look on Sherlock’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

“When one thinks of ‘babysitter,’ I’m not exactly at the top of the list.”

“Please, I would have left – ” But John cuts himself off, inhaling sharply and letting the unsaid ending dangle precariously in the air.

The baby. _I would have left the baby with you._

He clears his throat and scoots to the other side of the blanket, busying himself with gathering up their things.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, taking hold of his wrist and halting the jerky movements.

“Don’t,” John says, bitingly. “Please,” he continues more quietly. “This is difficult enough, I don’t – I don’t need your pity.”

“You don’t have it,” Sherlock softly replies.

And sure enough, when John glances up, he sees nothing but compassion on Sherlock’s usually cool features. He manages a nod and a tight smile, thinking Sherlock will release him and they’ll be on their merry way, but Sherlock surprises him once more – as he’s done since he walked into the Landmark and turned John’s world upside down. He tugs John to him and presses his lips against the corner of his mouth. It’s brief and dry and a bit off-target, but it still sends John’s heart thumping.

He closes his eyes belatedly and breathes deeply, inhaling the comforting scent of wool and tea and the sea. Sherlock’s hand settles on his lower back and John smiles, feeling a tug on his trouser leg and glancing down to find Connor hanging onto the material, looking up and likely wondering why he’s being left out.

He’s about to tilt his face up and tell Sherlock he’s getting very good at this, this pretending, but movement out of the corner of his eye pulls his gaze towards the dunes, where he thinks he sees something disappear just out of sight.

“You all right?” Sherlock asks and John nods, but his eyes remain on the grass blowing in the breeze.

“Thought I saw something.”

xxxxxx

Sherlock feels unsettled and not just because he’s actually pushing a _pram_ down the High Street. John saw something on the beach. Something that distracted him from the perfectly lovely kiss that Sherlock worked up the courage to place (nearly) on his lips. John isn’t one to see ghosts in the shadows, so Sherlock genuinely believes that something, or someone, was there.

Watching them.

There’s excitement for the case, sure, but there’s also something new – fear. Fear for John, fear for the fragile situation they seem to find themselves in. Fear for the child that they’ve knowingly placed in harm’s way. Speaking of -

Connor babbles at things as they pass, little arms pointing out red mailboxes and yellow parking meters, and Sherlock translates as best he can.

“Boo!”

“Bird, yes. Very good,” Sherlock nods. “Larus argentatus. Also known as the Herring Gull. Bloody terrors, the lot of them,” he mutters, pausing slightly as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

**All good?**

**We separated five minutes ago.**  
**Please give me more credit than**  
**that. - SH**

**I’d never doubt you.**

**Liar. – SH**

**Git.**

He can’t help smiling as he pockets the phone once more, registering that Connor is trying to get his attention by rocking the pushchair and loudly pointing out the dog tied up to a bench outside the Visitor’s Center.

“Lovely! You found it. Well done, Connor,” he says and if he ruffles the boy’s hair, no one is around to see it.

The door is propped open the let in the warm summer air and Sherlock pauses by the entryway to study the posters and flyers hanging in the window announcing the county fair (which Sherlock had his fill of, thank you very much), a few yard sales, a new ice cream shop, and an open mic night at the local pub.

“Hello!” someone greets in the overly friendly tone reserved for those in sales and/or small towns. He turns to find a young woman (27, brown hair, blue eyes, lived here all her life) bending down and smiling at Connor, who grins back and plays coy by hiding behind his stuffed Paddington Bear.

“Tease,” Sherlock mutters as the girl straightens and greets him with a bright smile.

“Hello! I’m Emily. Welcome!” She holds her hand out and Sherlock takes it, plastering a friendly smile on his face as he turns and gestures to the center.

“Quite the set up you’ve got here.”

“Oh yes, no shortage of things to do,” she laughs and she seems sweet enough, in an annoying sort of way, so he lets her gather some pamphlets for him all while chattering on about the history of the town dating back to the Vikings.

He deliberately mentions he’s here on holiday with his husband and she doesn’t bat an eye. If anything, her smile gets wider.

“Lovely! Anniversary, is it? Well there’s a great restaurant – ”

He tunes her out, yet manages to jump back in by the time she’s wrapping up. “Thanks so much for your help,” he says, throwing some forced sincerity behind it. “We’ve got plenty to keep us busy now.”

“I’m sure,” she replies with a wink before bending down and waving at Connor. He’s bored now, though, so his response is half-hearted at best. Sherlock takes particular pride in that.

“Shall we?” he asks the boy and Connor nods with the kind of put-upon air Sherlock usually reserves for John.

The pushchair is relatively easy to navigate and he manages it with one hand as flips through the flyers with the other. He recalls the files Mycroft had sent him, bringing up the interview transcripts in his mind’s eye. Ah yes – Emily Mattigan, 27. As an employee of the Visitors Center, she had been questioned on whether or not she had witnessed any strange goings on. Any out-of-place visitors. Anything amiss. Her answers didn’t help in the slightest and now Sherlock knows why. She was probably too busy chattering away to notice anything of import.

He finds a bench to sit on by the park and makes sure that the pram is pointed towards the dogs playing fetch while Sherlock closes his eyes and delves into his mind palace, calling up all of the information Mycroft had given him on the case.

_Two families, four parents, three children._

_Peter Covington and Tyler Montgomery, aged 38 and 33, respectively. One child: Alice Covington-Montgomery, aged 3._

_Alistair Ashford and Miles Wilson, aged 43 and 39, respectively. Two children: Ethan and Gemma Ashford-Wilson, aged 4 and 2, respectively._

_One couple had been seeking couples counseling. The other had been dealing with one husband’s battle with alcoholism and the other’s infidelity. Interesting._

_Marital discord. Unhealthy environment._

_The parents had been fighting. The children had been neglected._

_Are the murders merely emotional and not political? Does the fact that it involves one junior official and one MP have nothing to do with it?_

_Of course. It only means that it caught Mycroft’s attention. The murderer doesn’t want government secrets. If he or she did, the parents would still be alive. The murderer is a well-meaning, but morally bankrupt, homophobic vigilante. A righteous savior._

_The children aren’t being harmed. They’re being_ rescued.

_They’re alive. They’re here._

Sherlock opens his eyes, gasping at the sudden clarity.

“Oh that’s clever. Is it? Connor, why is it cle – ?” 

But the words die on his tongue because when he turns, the pram is empty, the straps that previously held the child in place, swinging gently off the sides.

 _White noise._ That’s all he hears. Heart thumping, blood rushing, ears ringing – it creates a cacophony of nothingness that reverberates around a mind that’s incapable of thinking any clear thought at the moment.

So he does what is always his inclination whenever he’s tired or excited or even when he’s scared, though he doesn’t admit that happens often. In this moment, though, with an empty pram and terror clinging to every fiber of his being, Sherlock Holmes does what comes naturally:

He calls John’s name.

xxxxxx

Mycroft (or his hackers) had managed to secure Greg a room next to Sherlock and John’s, which is convenient for many reasons: keeping an ear out for trouble, being close by if backup is needed, overhearing anything that might be used as blackmail at a later date –

But right now, at 3:37pm on a Friday afternoon, all he hears is a mighty crash followed by yelling.

 _“I cannot believe you just_ left! _Did you even attempt to look?”_

_‘Don’t be an idiot! Of course I did! He was nowhere to be found!”_

Greg listens at the wall, getting another loud crash for his efforts, which causes him to stumble back and nearly fall on the bed. 

He shouldn’t go over – it could look suspicious and blow his cover – but presumably he can sell himself as a concerned fellow guest. He clears his throat and heads into the hallway, rapping his knuckles on the door and causing the sound of raised voices to immediately cut off. The door swings back a moment later to reveal John, looking pale and distraught. Something like relief passes across his face at the sight of Greg, before he carefully schools his features into the role he’s meant to be playing.

“May I help you?” John asks, but the subtext is clear: _Will you help us?_

“Uh, I heard shouting. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“I’m sorry if we were loud. We lost our – our son,” John stutters over the words and Greg breathes out an expletive. Mycroft’s debriefing didn’t include this contingency.

John backs up and Greg takes it as the invitation it is, entering the room to find that Sherlock has basically torn it apart, pacing from one end to the other, kicking and tossing anything in his wake.

“You shouldn’t have given him to me!” he shouts, not even acknowledging Greg’s existence and John barks out a biting laugh behind him.

“You’re supposed to be his father, too! I can’t be the only responsible one!”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but finally, Greg’s had enough. “Where were you?”

“What?” Sherlock snaps and Greg narrows his eyes as he crosses his arms, silently reminding him he’s the DI here.

“Where were you when you lost him?”

“Top of the High St. by the park. He was strapped in his pram, I swear it!” Sherlock yells, voice breaking and practically tearing at his hair.

Greg wants to go to him, to offer him some sort of comfort, but the room might be bugged and he’s supposed to be just the writer in the adjacent room.

Shockingly, though, it’s John who steps forward, anger from the previous moment gone. “All right, all right,” he murmurs, utterly appeasing. “I know he was strapped in. You wouldn’t take your eye off him if he wasn’t.”

Sherlock visibly swallows and nods as John runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms. And for the first time, Greg actually notices what a good pair they are – beyond the crime fighting and the mystery solving. Just the two of them, stripped bare. They complement each other perfectly in every possible way. 

“Let’s go get him, yeah?” John suggests and Sherlock nods again.

“Want me to come with?” Greg asks and he can see the conflict on John’s face. He clearly wants the DI to tag along, but doesn’t want to blow their cover.

“I’ve got my husband,” Sherlock answers for them, exhaling a shaky breath. “We’ll be fine.”

Greg nods and heads for the door, but Sherlock’s voice halts him just as he gets there.

“But sir?” Greg turns and Sherlock smiles tightly. “Thank you.”

Fondness blooms in his chest for the boy who stumbled onto a crime scene high as a kite; whom he helped keep off the streets and keep the needles out of his arms; for the man who showed up with an army doctor trailing behind and a simple, “He’s with me;” who, despite what he thinks, cares a great deal about a great many things, most particularly, the man still at his side.

“Go get him,” Greg simply says. Orders, more like. “Bring him home.”

John nods, but his eyes remain on Sherlock. “We will.”

xxxxxx

John wants to kill him. He wants to kill him and then hug him and then kill him again.

“Hold my hand,” he instructs as they exit the inn and immediately head towards the High Street, pace brisk.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, but he complies anyway.

“Because I need something to hold onto and I’d rather it be your hand than your throat.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replies, squeezing John’s fingers and he answers it with pressure of his own. They’re in this together. Sherlock didn’t lose Connor. They both did.

The pram is exactly where Sherlock left it, having gone sprinting from shop to shop in search of the boy and not wanting to be bogged down by dead weight. John checks the straps, no tampering, and squints into the late afternoon sun.

“Connor?” he calls, not really expecting the boy to answer, but it gives him something to do. 

The park has emptied out now, but Sherlock’s hand remains tight in his, only breaking apart when absolutely necessary. They head down a side street, towards the ice cream shop whose flyer is lying on their hotel room floor. The papers were sent scattering when Sherlock came bursting through the door, creating a temporary rainbow flurry of colorful paper that had gone fluttering to the floor. Connor would have loved it.

And then, however, John hears a noise that stops him cold, bringing Sherlock to a halt beside him, breath held.

A giggle carries its way out of the shop, filtering down the narrow lane, and both John and Sherlock exhale and sprint.

“Sher – ” John begins, but Sherlock is already well ahead of him, blowing through the door marked ‘The Highland Creamery” with John on his heels.

“Pa!” Connor calls when he catches sight of Sherlock, arms raised, happily sitting on the counter with chocolate covering his face. And Sherlock immediately picks him up and crushes him to his chest, one hand holding under his bum and the other cupping the back of his head.

“Where did you go?” Sherlock asks, burying his face in the boy’s neck as John comes up and presses close to both of them.

“Da!” Connor says next, reaching out a sticky hand for John. John takes it and presses it to his lips.

“We were so worried, love.” 

A kindly old man is watching them with a smile on his face and John finally breaks away, breath hitching as he holds out his hand.

“Thank you so much,” he manages, heart in his throat, and the man takes his hand in his own.

“Not a worry. Found the little tyke wanderin’ down the lane, picking weeds between the cobblestones.”

“Sounds like your son,” John manages over his shoulder, but Sherlock isn’t paying attention. “Thank you again. Truly.”

“My pleasure,” the man says again, wiping his hands on his apron and cleaning up the mess Connor made.

“Please, what do we owe you for the ice cream?” John asks, but the man waves the money away.

“Nah, on the ‘ouse.”

John is about to thank him again, but before he can, Sherlock is shifting Connor into his arms with a murmured, “Daddy’s turn.”

John holds him tight, inhaling baby powder and chocolate and the shampoo from his bath that morning. Connor’s sticky fingers hold tight to his collar, but he can’t be arsed to care. Not when the boy is safe and sound.

It could have been so much worse.

John finally looks up at Sherlock, taking in his red-rimmed eyes and pale skin, the rapid breathing that borders on hyperventilation and the sagging relief that slumps his shoulders.

“Let’s go home,” he suggests and Sherlock nods, leading the way out of the shop once more.

“Thank you again,” John manages as Sherlock reaches behind him, blindly feeling for John’s hand until he threads their fingers together.

“Happy to help,” the man says as they exit. “Beautiful child you’ve got there, Dr. Watson.”

“Oh… ta,” John replies, unconsciously running a hand through Connor’s curls as they continue on their way.

It takes him two minutes longer than it should to realize he never gave the man his name.


	5. For All of the Plans We’ve Made, There Isn’t a Flag I’d Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally whispers and it’s so quiet that John needs a moment to determine if he actually heard anything at all.
> 
> “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” John softly replies as he crouches down.

“John,” Sherlock harshly whispers for the third time in as many minutes, long stride clipped to not outpace John and the precious cargo he carries.

“Not yet,” John simply replies, keeping his voice light and his smile present as he brushes his lips across Connor’s forehead.

They’re nearly at the inn and Connor has been babbling about his adventure the whole way, clearly significantly less traumatized by the excursion than his parents are. Sherlock holds the front door open and John manages a semi-convincing smile for Mia as they make their way to the stairs.

Sherlock’s hand is steady on his back and John allows himself to take comfort in it, leaning back slightly as they trudge up the three flights. Connor claps his sticky fingers together and Sherlock's fingers twist in John's coat, holding tight. 

He's clingy, John's noticing – wrapping his body around John's smaller one in the wee hours of the morning and staying that way until one of them wakes. This isn't necessarily surprising to John. Sherlock's always had little regard for personal space. No, what surprises John is that he clings  _back,_ fingers threading through hair and palms clutching at vests just because he can. Because this fiction, this fake relationship, gives him leave to. And John will take advantage as long as he's able if only to make up for every evening he spent in 221B alone, wondering what he could have done to keep Sherlock from stepping off that roof.

But now is not the time for such thoughts. 

Greg pokes his head out of his room just as they come down the hallway, giving John the impression that he’s been listening for their return. The relief on his face at seeing Connor is palpable and John’s smile is a bit more genuine this time.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, slowing down so Greg can get a good look at the boy.

“Been on a little adventure, have you?” Greg asks, nudging Connor’s trainer and the boy smiles bashfully and buries his face in John’s neck once more.

The gaiety on Greg's face fades though when he catches sight of Sherlock behind John – standing there as imperiously as if he were at a crime scene, positively thrumming with energy and barely contained rage.

“He all right?” Greg asks and John gives the barest shake of his head, yet answers, “Fine” all the same. “Just had a bit of a fright.”

Greg’s eyes narrow and he nods, and John breathes easier knowing he got the message.

With one more grateful glance, John turns and ushers Sherlock into their room, quietly closing the door behind them and letting Connor down to tear about as he pleases.

“He  _knew_ your  _name_ ,” Sherlock immediately hisses, turning on him with eyes blazing. “The only people who know your name here are myself, Greg – who’s currently pretending to  _not_ know your name, and  _Mia_ ,” Sherlock spits.

“Maybe he reads the blog,” John calmly replies as he tugs Connor’s chocolate-stained shirt over his head.

"Oh," Sherlock scoffs before spitting, "I knew you were naive but  _jesus._ " 

John tries his damnedest not to flinch and fails. Attacks on his personal character are not new or even rare, but he's feeling especially raw after spending months married to a woman who was everything but what she seemed to be.

“Why aren’t you more upset about this?” Sherlock yells and John finally snaps.

“I  _am_ upset, you dick, but we can’t  _both_  fall apart!" he roars. "We take turns! That’s how this works!” 

Silence falls, broken only by the sound of their heavy exhalations and, eventually, a sniffle from Connor, standing frozen as he reaches for the loo's door handle. 

Sherlock's face does a weird scrunchy thing, like he's trying to fight off emotion and failing gloriously, as he collapses in the desk chair in the corner, dropping his head in his hands. John watches him for a moment, debating, before grudgingly walking over and letting his hand hover over the other man's shoulder. Eventually, he grips it, letting the tips of his fingers graze the skin at Sherlock's nape.  

"I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally whispers and it’s so quiet that John needs a moment to determine if he actually heard anything at all.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” John softly replies as he crouches down. “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Sherlock glances up, eyes wide and childlike. "I lost him." 

"And you found him." John's hand cups Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb along those sharp contours. It's intimate – far more intimate than they've ever dared or allowed before. And it's not for the sake of the case, John knows that. They have no audience, save for the little boy slowly inching his way closer and closer to them. 

Sherlock smiles in that soft way he did on a plane after he came to and asked John,  _"Miss me?"_ It’s a memory that haunts John in both the best and worst possible ways.

He leans in, meaning to offer comfort and reassurance, but whether it's for Sherlock or himself, he's honestly not sure and he'd really rather not know. He tells himself it's for the case, this kiss he's about to give, but it's suddenly become too much – too raw, too vulnerable, too emotional – and he diverts midway there, pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead instead. A much safer destination. 

He closes his eyes and stands, not wanting to know what truths Sherlock's expressive features are telling. He picks Connor up and blows a raspberry on his tummy, prompting squeals from the boy as he attempts to wriggle free. He then gives the boy a cursory wash and changes them both to sleep, even though it’s too early for Connor’s bedtime, let alone his own.

Sherlock has yet to move from his place in the chair, eyes tracking them as they move about the room. “What are you doing?” he finally asks as John pulls the covers back and slides in.

“We’re going to bed,” John replies, reaching out and picking Connor up and tucking him into his side, “because it’s been a hell of a day and your son needs to sleep.”

The cot will remain empty tonight.

Sherlock looks befuddled. “But dinner.”

John barks out a laugh. “Sherlock Holmes worrying about food? Now I  _know_  you’re distressed.”

Sherlock’s face remains troubled so John sighs and pats the other side of the bed. 

“C’mon. We’ll order in.” John raises his eyebrows, finally prompting Sherlock to move. “I think we could all do with a little cuddle this evening, don’t you?” he directs to the boy who nods and burrows further into John’s side.

Sherlock toes off his shoes, brow still creased in consternation that slowly fades as he crawls into bed next to John fully clothed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he mutters, shuffling closer anyhow.

John smiles and holds his arm out, allowing Sherlock to curl into it. “I beg to differ.” 

They fall asleep before they can contemplate food.

It’s the best night’s sleep John’s had in a year.

xxxxxx

Sherlock feels the heavy weight of a curious gaze and blinks his right eye open (his left is still smashed against John's undoubtedly numb arm) to find Connor sitting quietly in the small space between their bodies, reaching out to poke him in the nose. 

It draws a smile to Sherlock's face, which clearly pleases Connor, who reaches out to do the same to a still-sleeping John.

“Don’t poke, Daddy. He needs more sleep than the rest of us.”

Connor tilts his head in confusion, but his arm remains at his side, tiny fingers moving to play with the zipper on his onesie.

Sherlock does a quick inventory – wedding ring, wrinkled suit, grumbling stomach. They never did make it to dinner, all three having passed out long before the sun dipped below the horizon.

He puts his finger to his lips and beckons Connor over. The boy leans towards him, allowing Sherlock to scoop him up without jostling John too much.

The first nappy Sherlock changes is… eventful. Connor manages not to pee on him, but he does try to squirm about more than Sherlock would like. Which is how Sherlock finds himself chasing a bum-naked toddler across the room while waving a dirty nappy in one hand and a clean one in the other.

He hears a click from the bed and turns in time to see John putting down his phone.  _Bugger._

“That might be the most precious thing I’ve ever seen,” John says, barely containing his laughter.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snipes and John stops trying to rein in his mirth. 

“Never,” he laughs, before rolling over and picking his watch up from the side table. “Christ, it’s after 9am already.”

Sherlock gets Connor down on the floor and manages to wrestle the clean nappy onto him, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“I expect you’ll want breakfast?”

John swings his legs over the end of the bed with a groan and rubs his face. “You can’t tell me even  _you_ aren’t hungry after passing out so early last night.”

Sherlock shrugs and finally lets Connor loose. He immediately runs over to John and holds his arms up.

“Well, hello,” John murmurs, lifting the boy onto his lap. “Did you have a good sleep?”

Connor nods, not really knowing what he’s answering but recognizing the upward inflection of a question all the same. Sherlock remains on the floor, watching them.

John really is in his element. He’d deny it to his dying day, but this domesticity is just as becoming on him as chasing a criminal across the rooftops of London. Sherlock used to tell himself it was for the best, what happened. It's a horrible, selfish thought and one he doesn't think about anymore except in his nightmares, but even in his waking hours, he knows he couldn't compete with a baby. Not for John's time, attention, or love. But telling himself it was for the best was his way of coping. It didn't get him very far, though, because to deny John this opportunity, to ignore the fact that he'd make an incredible father, is what's so damn heartbreaking about this whole mess. And if Sherlock hates Mary for one reason above all, it's for taking that away. 

John is a caretaker. He fixes people. He  _saves_ people. Sherlock is living proof of this every day. 

“I’m okay now,” he finds himself murmuring, not really realizing the words are coming out until they’re already hanging in the air.  

“What?” John asks, frowning at him as he allows Connor to mush his cheeks into a pucker.

“You said we take turns falling apart,” Sherlock simply replies. “I’m okay now. It can be your turn." 

A beautiful expression takes over John’s face and he smiles softly. “I’m all right. But thank you.” Connor claps his hands back on John's face, effectively breaking the moment. "Oh I'm sorry, was I not paying sufficient attention to you?" 

Connor pouts and John laughs, head tilting back, shoulders shaking, and Sherlock is _mesmerized._

_Christ._

"Breakfast, yes? Let's go," he abruptly says, hopping to his feet and brushing his trousers off. He needs to change. And shower, but right now, more than anything else, he needs to get out of this room.

He catches a glance of himself in the mirror and reconsiders. Perhaps the shower first. 

"All right, all right," John chuckles. "I might wash when we come back up. This one seems a bit impatient." 

And it's true – Connor is all but tugging John to the door. 

Sherlock makes a non-committal sound, already unbuttoning his shirt. He feels dirty and worn, like a car left out in the snow to gather dirt and salt and film long after the beauty has faded. He didn’t sleep much the night previous and the shirt falls to the floor before he has a chance to remember why that’s probably not a good idea.

It’s okay, though. John’s sharp inhalation on the other side of the room reminds him.

“Oh my god…” he breathes.

Sherlock freezes, fingers hovering over his trouser buttons, as he turns to find John halfway through tugging on his own. The situation would be hilarious if John didn’t have that utterly infuriating and completely warranted look of absolute  _heartbreak_ on his face. His eyes scan Sherlock’s back, no doubt clocking every ridge and every scar – every imperfection marring Sherlock’s pale skin.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replies, because what else is he to say, but John’s not having any of it. He tugs his trousers on the rest of the way and strides over, stopping just a few feet away. An invisible barrier set between them as formidable as the Berlin wall. 

"Sherlock, this is not fine!" He reaches out and his hand hovers a few inches away from Sherlock's shoulder blade. Sherlock flinches away, daring to look into John's face and fervently wishing he hadn't. 

His eyes are wide and bright, wetness clinging onto his bottom lashes, as he stares at Sherlock with the exact same expression he had when he showed up at Leinster Gardens with nothing but weak assurance and a bottle of Claire de la Lune. It’s desperate denial warring with resigned acceptance. Truth bullying its way through disbelief. Heartbreak hiding behind anger.

“Just leave it, John," Sherlock finally mutters as he grabs a towel and hurries towards the loo. 

"But, Sherlock - "

“I said leave it!” he snaps, and he looks at John's face again because he's just a glutton for punishment. 

He watches in horror as those tears spill onto John’s cheeks.

John Watson doesn't cry. At least not in front of him. Not when Sherlock landed on the pavement in a puddle of blood as John desperately felt his wrist for a pulse. Not when he reappeared in a Marylebone restaurant with a fake moustache and a severe underestimation of the situation. Not when Mary pledged her life to him with a vow that Sherlock envied. Not when she put him in the back of ambulance with nothing but  _“Sherlock, we’re losing you”_ to cling to.

Sherlock doesn’t (can’t) watch as John schools his features back into that hateful mask of indifference once more. He doesn’t listen to him murmur something to Connor or see him lift the boy onto his hip in a practiced move that’s already becoming habit. He can’t let him _know_ how badly he tried to keep this from him.

Sherlock flees into the bathroom and runs the water just to escape the silence.

He waits until he hears the telltale click of the hotel room door before he lets his own tears come.

xxxxxx

Greg exits his hotel room, sighing as the raised voices of the men next door ebb and flow once more. His respect for Mrs. Hudson has tripled in the last 24 hours and he already thought she was first in line for a sainthood.

He shuts the door behind him, double-checking that’s it locked, as the door one over opens with a jerk and John steps out into the corridor, Connor on his hip. His eyes are bright, but not with hope.

“All right?” Greg asks, gently taking hold of John’s elbow as he stalks by him.

“It’s like navigating a bloody minefield,” John mutters, voice rough, as he passes and Greg lets him go. They aren’t supposed to know each other after all.

Connor gives him a little wave over John’s shoulder, which Greg returns with a half-hearted smile.

Mycroft had sent him the readout from the GPS trackers as well as the specifics from Connor’s disappearance yesterday and his miraculous return. Greg watched Sherlock’s marker go for a walk, pause by the park for 26 minutes before dashing back to the hotel and then retracing his steps, this time with John’s tracker side by side with his. Mycroft also sent him the CCTV footage, but the camera from the side street where the ice cream shop is located was conveniently offline from 3:48pm – 5:19pm yesterday.

Greg nods at Mia as he exits the inn, moleskin tucked into his jacket pocket for clues rather than prose. The day is overcast, seemingly reflecting the mood of everyone involved in this little melodrama. He ignores a text from Donovan as he makes his way up the High Street asking if the lovebirds had eloped for real yet.

Her words, not his.

Thinking on it, though, it honestly wouldn’t faze him if they did. Might even help the cause, not having to browbeat some poor sod into letting John or Sherlock into the ambulance when the other’s gotten himself injured. Frankly, a marriage certificate would save him a lot of stress, all things considered.

Greg’s not an idiot, despite what Sherlock says. He knows they care deeply about one another and after the fiasco with Mary, or whoever she was, he doesn’t expect John to enter into any long-term relationship save for the one he already has.

And Sherlock? Well, Sherlock’s been gone on John since day one and that’s no surprise to Greg.

He hopes they live very happy lives – together – terrorizing criminals and ordering too much takeaway. That future for both of them would make Greg a very happy man.

Or maybe he’s just getting soppy in his old age.

He finds the lane and sees the sign for the ice cream shop in the distance. It’s closed, but a glance through the window shows a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with his head buried in a cabinet.

Greg taps on the window, causing the kid to jump and bump his head on the paneling. Greg winces and mouths “sorry” with a chagrined smile as the kid comes over and unlocks the door with a smile.

“It’s cool,” he replies. “Can I help you?”

Greg takes a risk and flashes his badge. The teen’s eyes widen and he backs up, allowing Greg to enter. “Just following up on a missing boy’s case. He disappeared briefly yesterday and turned up in this store being looked after by an older gentleman. The parents didn’t catch his name and I said I’d check in.”

The kid frowns. “Are you sure, sir? The shop was closed yesterday. And will be today, actually. We've temporarily relocated to a stand at the fair all weekend. Yesterday was our first day off-site. I’m just here picking up supplies.”

Greg raises an eyebrow. “And an older gentleman doesn’t work here? Relation, maybe, that has keys?”

The boy shakes his head. “Nah, it’s just me, my mum, and my sister. Dad died last year.”

Greg clears his throat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Car accident. Shit happens,” the kid says with a shrug and carefully practiced nonchalance.

Greg nods, but his attention is diverted before he can ask more questions, for on the counter sits a plush Paddington Bear. Blue coat. Red hat. The same one that sat in a bag in the corner of Mycroft’s office and held John Watson’s attention until a little boy swept in and stole it all away.

“And this?” he asks softly, pointing to the toy. “Was this here last time you were in the store?”

“Oh,” the boy frowns, reaching for it. “Honestly, I thought it was my nephew’s. My sister brings him in here all the time.”

“I don’t think it is,” Greg murmurs, gently taking the toy the kid is handing him.

“But if that belongs to the boy who went missing…”

“It means someone else has been in your store,” Greg mutters, turning the bear over in his hand. “Nothing was amiss when you came in here this morning? No sign of forced entry?”

The kid is now staring at him wide-eyed and slowly shaking his head.

“I suggest you get your locks changed then,” Greg replies grimly, digging in his pocket to pull out his wallet. “Here’s my card. I’m staying at the Tidewater. If something comes up, give me a ring. What’s your name?"

“Uh, Davey,” he replies, taking the card. “David Wilcox.”

“Nice to meet you, Davey. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” He sweeps out of the store and tucks Paddington Bear safely in his pocket, muttering a curse as he fires off a text to Mycroft.

 **You might want to call**  
**in the team.**

Mycroft’s response is immediate:

 **New developments?**  
**\- MH**

 **Store was closed yesterday.**  
**Or was supposed to be. No sign**  
**of forced entry.**

 **The man knew John’s name.**  
**-MH**

Greg stops walking.

**Fuck.**

xxxxxx

Mycroft’s grasp of the English language is better than most, but even he allows for the occasional slip into the colloquial.

 **Indeed. – MH** is the simple reply.

Neither Sherlock nor John has contacted him directly, per instruction, but it doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been listening. And what an eventful 24 hours it’s been.

**How’s my nephew? – MH**

He doesn’t expect Sherlock to answer. He’s been reliably informed by the bugs in the room that he and John have rowed and not about any small thing. Mycroft was there for the tail end of Serbia and he can hazard a guess about what he missed from the beginning. He’d seen the evidence on his baby brother’s back long before it had healed. He knows what marks his skin still bears.

The phone pings, breaking him from his rather morose thoughts and he glances at the screen.

 **You promised there would**  
**be surveillance. Where was your**  
**backup when Connor went**  
**missing? – SH**

Mycroft bristles.

 **Where were YOU, little**  
**brother? – MH**

There isn’t a response for a few minutes and Mycroft truly wonders if perhaps he’s pressed too far. But then it comes:

**There’s been a note.**

The fact that the text lacks the usual  **– SH**  is Mycroft’s first clue that something is amiss. Still, he wouldn’t be a proper big brother if he made it  _easy._

 **I assume they weren’t asking**  
**you to tea? - MH**

But when Sherlock follows it up with  **Grt here nowq.** Mycroft is out of his chair before his answering text is even delivered.

**I'm on my way. - MH**

xxxxxx

John stares at the note in Sherlock’s shaking hand as he gently sways from side to side with Connor in his arms. It’s keeping the boy semi-calm, even if John is feeling the complete opposite.

_“You can’t protect him anymore than you could protect them.”_

“Who’s 'him?” Greg asks and Sherlock gives a pointed look in Connor’s general direction.

“What do we do?” John asks, because despite the fact that he’s feeling a plethora of emotions towards the man at his side, the case – and more importantly, Connor’s safety – comes first.

Sherlock stares at John in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat, before his eyes flick down to the boy in his arms. “Get him out of here.”

John blanches. “What?" 

“Look at him, he’s terrified. Take him for a walk.”

“Yes, because that worked out so well yesterday,” John replies tartly, immediately hating himself for it. “Sorry, that was…”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mutters but John isn’t having any of it. He grabs his arm and holds on until Sherlock actually looks at him.

“It’s not fine. It was wrong to say. I’m sorry.”

He can feel Greg staring at them from the other side of the room, but he pays him no mind. Sherlock finally nods and only then does John let go. They’ve both been on edge since Mia handed John the innocuous envelope over eggs and toast. The plane white stationery that had a simple _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_ scrawled across the front. And John had gone barreling upstairs, practically pounding down the door until Sherlock answered, nevermind that he had been half-dressed at the time.

Sherlock’s phone pings and he glances at it.

“Mycroft has plainclothes minions waiting in the lobby of the hotel. Man and woman. Couple on holiday. They’ll trail you as added backup.”

“ _Added_ backup?” he starts to ask before Sherlock is shoving his gun down the back of his trousers.

“Oi, easy,” he mutters as Greg looks to the ceiling.

“I didn’t see that.”

John swallows and adjusts the weapon at his back, before pressing a kiss to Connor’s curls. “Shall we go for a walk?” he murmurs and he tries to infuse as much energy into the question as possible. It must work because Connor immediately lights up and nods enthusiastically.

He spares another glance at Sherlock, who’s looking like he could tear the world down at a moment’s notice. His fury reverberates through every limb, making his normally lithe movements jerky and graceless.

“Right, well we’ll just…” John makes a gesture towards the door, but Sherlock is already focused back on the note, this time with his magnifying glass in hand.

Greg steps forward and hands Connor the Paddington Bear from his pocket before placing a hand on John’s arm. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thanks,” John replies with his first genuine smile of the morning. “Appreciate it.”

He makes it to the hall before his name is being called, and he turns, barely getting out “Yeah?” before Sherlock is in his personal space, pressing a quick kiss to Connor’s head, and then pressing those lips firmly against John’s.

It could be for the case – there are cameras in the hall – but John doesn’t think it is and in this moment, he just doesn’t _care._ He grabs Sherlock’s lapel with his free hand and tugs him closer, making an involuntary but unavoidable noise that seems to carry with it the weight of the past 24 hours: Connor’s kidnapping, Sherlock’s scars – whatever it is that John’s feeling when Sherlock looks at him like _that._

“Be careful,” the taller man murmurs as he pulls away, breath hot against John’s ear as he wraps his arms around both of them, man and child.

John has never seen Sherlock this clingy. Not since they came home from the pool smelling like chlorine, shaking from depleted adrenaline, and Sherlock spent the night sitting on John’s floor while the other man slept.

John isn’t supposed to know that, but he does.

“I will,” he says softly, pressing a soft peck to Sherlock’s lips once more. “You too.”

Sherlock nods and the air hangs heavy between them in the space between real and pretend. Case and life. Friendship and something else entirely.

John manages a smile and hikes Connor up a little higher on his hip. He’s already decided not to take the pram, and even if he wanted to, he’s not sure where it is. He has a sneaking suspicion Sherlock either hid it in the back of the car or discarded it altogether. Too many bad memories, after all.

And so he turns, feeling Sherlock’s gaze on his back until he disappears down the stairs, holding Connor just a bit closer. He tells himself it’s to comfort the boy.

If anything, it’s to comfort himself.

The plainclothes agents from Mycroft are admiring some brochures in the lobby when John passes and he doesn’t need to turn to know they follow him out the door and down the street. They keep their distance, but not too much, and John is immensely grateful for them.

He and Connor feed the ducks by the water and John lets the boy ride a few of the kiddie rides at the fair before buying him some candy floss and letting him run off the sugar.

Sherlock texts every 30 minutes on the dot and John uses it to mark the time. Why get a watch when you have the world’s only consulting detective?

 **_11:45am_ **  
**All right? – SH**

 **_12:15pm_ **  
**Connor does not like the elephant**  
**ride. – SH**

 **_12:45pm_ **  
**No fingerprints on the note.**  
**\- SH**

 **_1:15pm_ **  
**Might interrogate Mia if you have**  
**no objections. – SH**

John responds to each one dutifully and he learns the hard way that if he does not send a return message within one minute, the text will be followed up with incessant phone calls. And if those aren’t answered, Sherlock will apparently call Mycroft and tell him to call his agents who will then stop pretending to admire the seaside and mosey over to John so the wife can compliment Connor while the husband surreptitiously shows him a text on _his_ phone from Sherlock, which reads **_WHERE IS JOHN?_**

John curses and smiles thankfully at them, immediately pulling out his phone and finding fifteen missed calls. He didn’t hear it over the roar of the rides.

 **I was pushing Connor on some**  
**swings. It’s okay, love. We’re fine.**

He contemplates the casual use of ‘love’ for a moment, before hitting send. He doesn’t regret it one bit.

He and Connor stroll back up the High St. passing the Visitors Center as a young woman rearranges the flyers in the window. She catches sight of him with Connor on his shoulders and her face lights up as she scurries around the corner and into the midafternoon sun.

“Hello, again!” she says brightly and John frowns.

“Uh, hi?”

“Oh,” she laughs, “I met your husband yesterday.”

“You did?” he asks, pretending the word ‘husband’ doesn’t make his blood warm.

“Yeah, he came by with the wee one. I’d never forget this face,” she gushes as she gently taps Connor’s trainer. “I’m Emily.”

“John,” he replies, shaking her hand as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

**Mia is a crier. – SH**

“Christ,” he mutters. “Must run, so sorry. Nice to meet you!” he says over his shoulder, already halfway down the street.

“Da,” Connor murmurs tiny fingers threading through John’s hair and John squeezes the boy’s knees.

“It’s all right. Papa is just being Papa. We must save him from himself.”

“Ya,” Connor replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on top of John’s head.

“Good boy,” John breathes, already knowing he’s in way too deep and not caring in the slightest.

xxxxxx

Sherlock reads the note over and over until it’s seared into his retinas, burned into the back of his lids, haunting him every time he closes his eyes. 

He still sees every curvature of every cursive letter as he sits across from Ms. Mia Alexander in The Tidewater’s hotel bar. He pushes the letter across the wooden table and folds his hands under his chin.

“When did you first see this letter?”

Mia blinks her eyes from him to the letter and back again. “Um, yesterday evening. When it was dropped off.”

She’s already tearing up and Sherlock hates her for it.

“And when was it dropped off?”

“Um…” she swallows and her eyes flick to the door where Lestrade has appeared. Sherlock doesn’t have to turn around to know he’s there.

“Sherlock, you can’t just go interrogating people,” he states, but it’s half-hearted at best, and Mia frowns in confusion.

"Wait, are you not a writer?” she asks and the DI sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not quite.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sherlock continues as if no one else had spoken. “When was it dropped off?”

Mia continues to gaze at Lestrade as if looking for help, but the DI gains a bit more respect by merely dropping his badge on the table and taking a seat beside Sherlock.

“The time, Ms. Alexander?” he prompts and she jumps.

“Um, around 5pm, I think. Give or take a bit.”

“You were at the ice cream shop,” Lestrade murmurs and Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“I’m aware. Who dropped it off?”

“I – I don’t know,” Mia stutters. “I had stepped away from the desk. It was there when I returned. It was only for a moment!”

“Why did you wait so long to give it to us?” a voice asks and Sherlock’s head whips around to find John standing in the doorway, Connor clinging to his collar.

Mia sniffles, looking more and more desperate now that she’s faced with all of them. A united front. “I tried when it first arrived and you weren’t here. I was off at 6pm and didn’t see either of you again until Mr. Watson arrived for breakfast.”

Sherlock stands abruptly and his chair topples over behind him with a clang. “But you called me ‘Mr. Holmes’ – when I went flying through the lobby yesterday morning, catching you unawares, you said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Holmes. But the reservation is clearly under Watson-Holmes. How did you know who I was?”

Mia stares in confusion, but jumps when Sherlock barks, “Answer me!”

“The credit card on file is for John Watson! That’s the one your husband handed me!” she cries, pointing at John. “I figured, by process of elimination, you were Mr. Holmes!” The sobs overtake her then, and Sherlock makes a noise of disgust, leaving her to Lestrade.

He strides over to John in the doorway, pausing next to him to stare out into the lobby as John continues to study Ms. Alexander. “Someone on the inside must be involved,” Sherlock murmurs. “She may not be the brains, but she could certainly be an accomplice.”

John is silent next to him and Sherlock shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Not good?” he asks after a moment, studying John’s pensive expression out of the corner of his eye.

“No, it was fine. When it’s to catch the bastard who took him,” he turns and threads his fingers through Sherlock’s, “it’s just fine.”

Sherlock finds himself smiling despite the seriousness of the situation, even as his phone chimes again in his pocket.

The text from the unknown number comes in with one word – one he’s intimately familiar with and has never wanted to hear less than in this moment.

**Wrong.**

 


	6. For Those Doubts That Swirl All Around Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn’t quite sure what’s happening. One minute, Sherlock is pulling his phone out of his pocket and the next, he's throwing it against the wall with such force, it splinters into shards of plastic and glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, m'dears! This chapter was a bitch. Also, I'm sorry.

John isn’t quite sure what’s happening. One minute, Sherlock is pulling his phone out of his pocket and the next, he's throwing it against the wall with such force, it splinters into shards of plastic and glass.

Connor lets out a little cry of alarm and John automatically shields his face, despite the fact that the mobile was thrown in the complete opposite direction. 

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John yells as Greg appears in the doorway. 

“All right?” he asks, brows raised in concern, and John shakes his head, eyes wide as he watches Sherlock's manic pacing. 

“Do me a favor and take him?”

“What?” Greg asks, but John is already depositing Connor into Greg’s accepting arms. 

"Just take him for a sec." 

Greg nods and John tries to ignore Connor's cries for him as they disappear back into the bar. The boy’s whimpers make something sharp and awful twist deep in his chest. But he can’t deal with that right now. Not when Sherlock is practically tearing his hair out and muttering to himself like he’s trying to perform an exorcism.

“Sherlock – ”

“It doesn’t make  _sense_!” he yells, spinning and nearly backhanding John in the process.

"Whoa, hey," John murmurs, palms held out in what he hopes is a placating manner. "Sherlock, what's going on?" 

“It’s not her,” he practically sneers.

“Who, Mia? Yeah I thought that was fairly obvious.” John inches closer and loosely wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. “I meant what the hell happened with the phone.”

Sherlock kicks a wayward piece of plastic as if it had done him a personal wrong, but doesn't yank his arm away. It's something.

“It was a text," he murmurs. "From the killer I presume.”

John’s heartbeat kicks up a notch and if his grip tightens, Sherlock doesn't say anything. “What? How’d they get your number? What’d they say?”

Sherlock shrugs. It looks misplaced next to his genius, yet makes him seem unbearably young and vulnerable.

“Just said, ‘Wrong.”

'Sher – " The name dies on his lips, barely a breath of exhalation. Sherlock _hates_ being wrong. "Look, maybe we are. It happens more than you think," he says quietly, afraid that if he raises his voice any higher, Sherlock will shatter just like that phone. John himself is feeling rather fragile at the moment. God knows they've been wrong. So, so many times. 

Moriarty. Magnussen. 

Mary. 

“Maybe we are,” he repeats and his voice breaks, remembering too many overlooked clues that led to so many nearly prevented losses. “You’re not omniscient. No one is." 

Sherlock blinks at him but there’s a sudden hardness behind his eyes – a sharp edge John has seen on many occasions right as Sherlock utters something disdainful like, _“Oh John, I envy you.”_ John hates the look and resents it even more now.

A throat clears behind them and John grasps onto the excuse to ignore Sherlock for a moment. Greg stands there with Connor, who immediately reaches out for John the minute the boy claps eyes on him.

“Hello, love,” John murmurs as he reaches forward and takes him. Connor glares at him as if to say _I can’t believe you left me with him._

“All good here?” Greg asks and neither man answers, which he supposes is answer enough. “Look, Ms. Alexander mentioned a local couple who’s also been receiving notes. Said they live on the edge of town by the water. Donovan’s following up with local law enforcement, but it checks out. The couple had filed a complaint that they’d received written threats.”

“Donovan’s here?” John asks as Sherlock says, “They’d.”

Both Greg and John turn to look him because really, of all of things in that sentence, ‘they’d’ is not exactly the obvious choice to focus on. “What?”

“You said ‘They’d,” Sherlock repeats. “They had. Are they no longer receiving the letters?”

Greg shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. John immediately gets a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Let’s go ask.”

xxxxxx

Sherlock never used to worry. Not about himself or others, but that all changed when he arrived back at 221B to find the Chinese code for “Dead Man” sprayed on his window in Michigan hardcore propellant, light yellow.

The threat mocked him even as his world dropped out from beneath his feet.

John was recovered and only marginally injured, but the fear remained. The fear that drove Sherlock to the top a roof and made him step off into empty air.

He feels that fear now regardless of the fact that John stands next to him. Because despite his best efforts, he’s come to care for the boy and leaving him with anyone who isn’t John is doing horrific things to his overactive imagination.

“He’s fine,” John murmurs quietly as they travel the short way across town. Lestrade drives with one of Mycroft’s plainclothes in the passenger seat and Sherlock would really prefer they not have an audience for this.

“Wasn’t concerned,” is his clipped reply and someone in his mind palace scoffs at the blatant lie. He can feel John’s heavy gaze on him but he says nothing and he supposes that’s the start of it. The start of John drifting away.

Sherlock knows it’s for the best. Some distance from whatever these… emotions are might afford him some clarity. But John is still staring at him with something akin to disappointment and Sherlock hates every second of this godforsaken case.

The rest of the ride is silent, save for the navigation telling Lestrade he’s reached his destination.

They exit the car and Mycroft’s minion remains by the boot, sunglasses firmly in place, as the rest of them walk up the path to the house.

“Gents, let me do the talking, yeah?” Lestrade says as he raises a hand to knock on the door.

Neither Sherlock nor John answers, each staring at the pavement until footsteps are heard on the other side of the door. It swings back a moment later to reveal a well-dressed man in his late thirties. Checked shirt under a blue jumper. Square glasses perched primly on his nose.

“Can I help you?”

“Daniel Hanson?” Lestrade asks and the man shakes his head.

“That’s my husband. I’m Edgar Abbott.”

“Mr. Abbott, hi,” Lestrade begins, flashing his badge. “I’m DI Lestrade and this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“Is this about the letters?” the man asks and John and Lestrade nod. Sherlock merely narrows his eyes. Edgar Abbott immediately steps back from the door and gestures inside. “Come on in. Sorry for the mess.”

“Not at all,” John replies as Sherlock studies the environment. Tidy, but lived in. There is clearly at least one small child – no, two. A pair of tiny shoes, one for a boy, one for a girl resting by the staircase.

“The police have the originals, but I made copies.”

“Smart of you,” John replies and Abbott shrugs.

“I married a lawyer.”

“Is your husband here now?” Lestrade asks and the other man shakes his head.

“He’s taking our son to football practice. Can I get you some tea?”

“No, thanks,” Lestrade answers. “We won’t take up much of your time. We just wanted to have a look at the letters.”

Sherlock glances around and clocks the coloring books mixed in with the law journals. The comic books with the bestselling novels. It’s an interesting sight. Almost… heartwarming.

“And there’s no one in town who’d want to do you harm?” he asks abruptly, turning to the man in the glasses who might have been in the middle of a sentence. Sherlock wasn’t really paying attention. “No one your husband put away that might want some revenge?”

Abbott raises an eyebrow. “He works in property law. The most heated case he’s ever had was a divorced couple fighting over their beach house.” He laughs, but no one else does and he sobers quickly. “Right, I’ll just get those letters.” He disappears into an adjoining study and Lestrade murmurs something to John. Sherlock tries hard not to be jealous.

Abbott returns a moment later with a manila folder and passes it off to Lestrade as Sherlock notes the crumbs on the coffee table: chocolate chip cookies, a blueberry muffin, and pizza that Abbott’s husband doesn’t want him to know about.

“Daddy!” a voice cries before a little girl comes barreling into the living room and wraps her arms around her father’s knees. “They found Nemo!”

Abbott smiles and John lets out a little laugh. “Did they?” the father asks. “How clever of them.”

“Uh huh,” the girl replies ( _five, precocious, tomboy),_ looking up at her father with utter adoration.

Sherlock saw that look on Connor’s face just that morning as he stared at John. Something pangs within his chest and he peers over Lestrade’s shoulder to focus on the papers in his hand. ‘Focus’ is a strong word though. He sees them, but he has no idea what they say.

“Why don’t you go see if Anna has the same luck with Elsa,” Abbott says and the girl executes a perfect eye roll.

“Daddy, you _know_ she does.”

“Well then the film will be a lot less stressful than the first time you watched it. Off you pop.”

She huffs and turns, marching back to the family room where low level music from an animated movie is playing. Sherlock doesn’t know who Anna and Elsa are, but presumably it’s enough to occupy the girl’s time.

“She’s adorable,” John says and Abbott smiles proudly.

“Penny,” he offers, after she disappears. “Penelope. She’s a handful, but…”

“You wouldn’t have her any other way,” John finishes for him and Sherlock knows he’s not referring to Connor.

He clears his throat and busies himself with the notes again, actually reading the words this time. “Same font as the one at the inn.”

“Looks like it,” Lestrade concurs. “Do you mind if we borrow these copies just until we can take a look at the originals at the station? I promise we’ll return them.”

“Hey, if you can solve this, then by all means, burn them.”

The front door opens a moment later followed by a booming “Hallo!”

“In here, babe,” Abbott replies and a man, Daniel Hanson presumably, appears a moment later.

“Oh. Hi,” he says and Lestrade digs his badge out of his pocket once more.

“DI Greg Lestrade. Just here about the letters.”

“They’re going to borrow the copies. They’ve got a lead,” Abbott offers to his husband who leans in and wraps his arm around his waist. It’s not overly affectionate, but it’s clearly a habitual move. Sherlock almost envies them.

Almost.

“How often did they come?” John asks.

“Daily, beginning about 18 days ago,” Hanson responds.

“And when did the letters stop?”

Abbott glances at his husband to confirm as he replies, “Two days ago.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches. He and John arrived two days ago.

John’s features are stricken and Sherlock knows the math is not beyond him either. “Right.”

“We’ll just…” Lestrade trails off and pulls a card from his wallet. “Call me if you think of anything. We’re staying at the Tidewater in town, so feel free to reach out.”

“Will do,” Abbott replies, before glancing at John and Sherlock. “Sorry – are you two together?”

John hesitates and so Sherlock rips the plaster off for both of them with a simple “No." 

John glances at him sharply with a look that Sherlock cannot interpret. And that alone terrifies him more than anything. He’s always prided himself on his ability to read people, particularly John. But lately…

“Oh – sorry,” the man stutters. “I just assumed – you’re both wearing the same ring.”

John swallows hard and turns back to the letters in Greg’s hand, pressing the pencil to his notebook harder than strictly necessary. Sherlock can see the whites of his knuckles from across the room.

Well, he supposes. That’s the end of that ruse then.

xxxxxx

When Sally joined the force, this isn’t exactly what she had in mind.

A toddler is currently babbling away to the stuffed Paddington Bear he holds in his arms while flipping through a picture book involving penguins. She’ll never admit it’s endearing, but… well, it is.

She knows he’s not the biological product of either Watson or the Freak, but damn if somebody didn’t do a good job of faking it. His blonde curls bounce with every giggle that escapes his tiny body and she can’t help but smile at the way his tongue peeks out between his lips as he stares at a baby penguin with utter concentration.

When Lestrade told her of the elder Holmes’ plan, she thought they were all mental. Giving a child to the pair of them? The madman and his blogger? Insane.

But then she remembered the way John had shown them his baby’s sonogram with utter pride. She recalled the pain in Sherlock’s eyes, carefully hidden behind practiced joy, as he did so.

She can’t forget the aftermath of Moriarty’s downfall or ignore the utter desolation both men felt. She tries, but she can’t. And as she sits on the floor, watching their fake son babble to a bear in a manner haughty enough to make Sherlock proud, she takes stock of the mass consequences the choices of a few have had on the many left behind.

She also wonders when he stopped being The Freak in her head. Sure, she uses it occasionally, if only to prove she can, but her heart isn’t in it.

“Da!” Connor’s voice pipes up and she smiles as she scoots a bit closer.

"Da? And which one is Da?" she asks, feeling a bit silly asking questions of a child who can't possibly comprehend what she's saying. “I bet Da’s John, isn’t he. Seems more of a Da. And Sherlock?”

But Connor merely smiles and crawls over to place the book in her lap, looking up at her expectantly.

“Oh I’m sorry, did you want me to read?” But before she can, a knock sounds at the door and Connor’s blonde head pops up, eyes alighting with excitement.

"Da?" 

“I don’t think so, kiddo,” she replies, ruffling his hair as she stands to glance through the peephole.

“Uh oh,” she says to the boy as she opens the door with a wry grin, revealing Mycroft Holmes standing on the other side. “We’re in trouble now.”

He arches a sharp eyebrow. “Sergeant Donovan,” he greets with a slight bow. “And where, pray tell, is my wayward baby brother?”

xxxxxx

The car is thick with tension and John does his utmost to ignore the three other persons occupying the space.

Sherlock had said, “No.”

The man had asked if they were together and Sherlock had just… said, “No.” Denied every quiet moment, every unsaid declaration that they’ve been dancing around for the past few weeks.

And then this, this case, came along. John thought it might be different, might light a fire under _one_ of their arses, but it seems they’ve been more stubborn than ever. And now…

Now it’s done. Over. The case might not be solved, but the time for playing pretend has run out.

He opens the car door before Greg even has it fully in park and stalks up to the front of the inn, ignoring Greg’s indignant “Oi” as he enters the lobby and heads straight for the empty bar. Mia is behind the taps and she raises an eyebrow at him in question, but when Sherlock enters a moment later, she beats a hasty retreat.

John can’t really blame her.

He studies the beer options (knowing it’s entirely too early in the day for that, but just in case) and listens to Sherlock pace back and forth behind him. “We were a horrible couple,” he jokes after a moment, but the chuckle gets stuck in his throat. He turns to find Sherlock looking at him questioningly. “Two days on a holiday and we never even had a proper date.” He gestures to the pub around them and Sherlock’s gaze finds his shoes and stays there.

“Well, it’s all pointless now. We might as well give Connor back.”

John audibly inhales and clenches his fist at his sides. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” Sherlock shrugs and it’s so matter-of-fact that John’s anger spikes. They’re talking about a child – a living, breathing human – not a bloody library book.

“You just want to… get rid of him?” His voice is low, controlled, which is probably the first clue that he’s unimpeachably furious.

Sherlock’s eye twitches (a possible chink in the armor?) but he ploughs on undeterred. “Truth is, he won’t remember us.”

John shakes his head. “How can you think like that? We’ve made an indelible impression on him.”

“Oh over the course of three days? He’s not even two!”

“He loves us!”

“And he loves _Little Penguin Gets the Hiccups_ , but that doesn’t mean he won’t move onto to another book when I accidentally set that one on fire!”

But John is adamant. “He loves _you_!”

“His first mistake!” Sherlock roars and John reels back as if slapped. “If we return him now, he’ll be none the wiser.”

“Return him where? He has nowhere to go!”

Sherlock begins pacing again, thoroughly avoiding John’s piercing gaze. “He was just a means to an end – ”

“Don’t,” John breathes, but Sherlock is a runaway train.

“A prop, if you will. One of Mycroft’s machinations. This was never real and pretending it was probably didn’t do either of us any good. Particularly you.”

“Sherlock – ”John is having trouble breathing, his lungs constricting as if caught in an ever-tightening vise.

“And you’re getting too attached,” Sherlock finally accuses and John manages a scoff.

“What, and you aren’t? You’d prefer me to act like you? Jump off a building? Overdose without a thought or care for anyone who might be left behind!”

He knew he was going too far, and yet the words came anyway. Now, he’s left with Sherlock – the person he cares about most in this world – staring at him like a stranger.

John makes a move towards him, but the other man holds up a hand.

"No, you're quite correct,” Sherlock clips. “What use is a heart, but to pump blood through your veins? And even that can be pointless at times." 

"Don't," John breathes, the image of Sherlock dead on the pavement flashing briefly in front of his eyes. 

“After all, look what good it did you,” is Sherlock’s final contemptuous, crushing blow and John just stands there, feeling absolutely nothing for a moment, before the pain of a thousand betrayals nearly buckles his knees.

He tugs the ring from his finger, drops it on the bar with a hollow clang, and turns without a word. 

xxxxxx

_You stupid, arrogant, sodding arsehole._

He just needed distance. He needed space to think instead of feeling this constant _worry_. It’s beating at his defenses, battering at his locked doors, and he can’t quiet his mind no matter how deep into his mind palace he goes.

He doesn’t know what to _do_ and he’s only succeeding in making everything worse.

His ears are ringing yet his eyes remain locked on the platinum ring resting on the oak bar, bright metal stark against deep wood.

"Sherlock,” Lestrade says lowly from the doorway, “I swear to god, if you let that man walk away – "

"Oh love advice? From a man who's been divorced twice?" he sneers.

“Don’t lash out at me just because you can’t sort through your feelings.”

“What feelings?” he sharply retorts and Lestrade just smiles sadly.

“Yes, that’s what you’d have everyone believe, isn’t it. But that’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard.”

His mouth opens in indignation, but before he can reply, Mycroft strolls into the bar, trusty umbrella hooked over his arm. The bastard.

“Greetings, brother mine.”

"Christ, what do you want?" he spits and Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 

"I believe I was summoned." 

 _Dammit._ He was. Sherlock curses his brief moment of weakness and resolves to ignore his brother for the remainder of the afternoon.

“Where’s Dr. Watson?”

Lestrade glares at Sherlock who averts his eyes and stares at the ring on the bar once more.

“Had a bit of a domestic, did we?”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Play nice, or else you won’t get this.” He holds up a new mobile and Sherlock comes thisclose to reaching for it. “I ask again: where is Dr. Watson?”

“Went for a walk,” Sherlock mutters and Lestrade snorts derisively.

“So he didn’t commit justifiable homicide.”

“Typical,” Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock, I sent you on this case so you could draw the killer out. Not so you could compromise the entire situation. I know you and Dr. Watson are well-versed in domestics by now, but there are _children’s lives_ at stake!”

“Don’t lecture me. It’s beneath you,” he replies, infusing the words with his typical disdain and yet he feels as though he’s splitting in two. His body is here, but John just walked off with his heart. Perhaps his brain will actually choose to function without the added distraction, though Sherlock isn’t holding his breath.

John’s words stung. They’re were whole-heartedly deserved, but they cut deep nevertheless. Something has settled deep in the pit of his gut, something heavy and leaden; Sherlock thinks it feels very much like regret.

“Where’s Connor?” he finally asks and Lestrade rolls his eyes. 

“Why do you care? You wanted to give him up a moment ago,” he replies and Sherlock hates him for throwing his own words back in his face.

“Still upstairs with Sergeant Donovan,” Mycroft intervenes, “snacking on crisps and waxing poetic on the lesser known truths of penguins.”

“What, you speak baby now?”

His brother smiles. “It’s really not that hard.”

Lestrade grabs the mobile out of Mycroft’s hand and stalks over to shove it against Sherlock’s chest. “Call John. Apologize. Work out whatever it is you two need to work out and then get back to work. I’m sick of watching you two hurt each other.”

He frowns at the sentiment-infused tone the detective uses yet takes the mobile all the same, turning to his brother for support and finding none there.

“I concur,” he quietly replies and Sherlock turns with a noise of disgust.

But all he’s faced with is that damn ring on the bar, the ring that temporarily tied him to John and currently mocks him in John’s absence.

He picks it up and shoves it deep into his pocket, ignoring Mycroft’s judgment and Lestrade’s wrath. He’ll deal with them later, after he’s solved the case and ended this entire masquerade.

Until then, he’ll feel its weight there against his thigh, heavy with all that’s been left unsaid and all that’s been said and cannot be taken back.

With a heavy sigh and his head held high, he turns and strides back into the lobby toward the staircase.

Time to go be Sherlock Holmes.

xxxxxx

John is numb and the lovely June breeze is doing nothing to thaw the ice he feels in some unnamable part deep within his thoracic cavity.

It’s a front, it has to be. Sherlock is – He’s not that. That man, that machine, might have been who Sherlock was (at least who he _pretended_ he was), but he doesn’t pretend with John. Not anymore.

He’s pushing him away for a reason. Fear? Possibly. They’re both afraid and neither handles that emotion particularly well. But John said some – some horrible things and if he could take it back, he would in a heartbeat. Even if Sherlock didn’t recant his own painful accusations.

Because he loves him.

And the epiphany makes him stop mid-stride on a wharf in Dorset, the blunt utterance of “Holy shit” making a few nearby seagulls scatter.

He loves him. John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

And it shouldn’t shock him as much as it does, but that’s life, he supposes. He’s always loved him in some way, but never _this_ way. And the realization tilts his world on its axis.

Right.

He reminds himself to breathe and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He’ll go back. He’ll apologize. He’ll take his face and snog him senseless, fake relationship be damned, because he loves Sherlock Holmes and it’s about bloody time he said it.

“Dr. Watson?” a voice asks and the smile slides from John’s face. It’s a familiar voice, one that’s haunted him, taunted him, for the best part of 24 hours.

_A kindly old man watching them with a smile on his face…_

John turns and has just enough time to think _Oh Sherlock_ right before everything goes black.

xxxxxx

Sherlock doesn’t notice at first.

He doesn’t realize that hours have passed since John stormed out of the inn with no destination in mind. Just a righteous fury and an undeniable need to be as far away from Sherlock as the local landscape will allow.

Donovan had asked where John was when he entered the room, but Sherlock only shrugged in return, a pouty gesture that didn’t belong on the face of a man who’s completed missions for MI6.

He had placed a kiss on Connor’s head, because that’s what John would have done, and tries not to be hurt by the disappointment on Connor’s face when he calls out for “Da” but gets Pa instead.

And he’s spent the last god knows how long in his mind palace sorting through files and trusting that Mycroft won’t allow any harm to befall the boy whom he placed in Sherlock’s care. He owes him that, at least.

The floor of the inn is hard, but he doesn’t feel the stiffness of his joints or the grumble of his stomach. The pain of the row with John far outweighs any potential discomfort. It has given distance and with distance has come patience. And with patience has come understanding.

The killer targeted government officials but dispatched them before gleaning any information. He’s held onto the children, though, so not a complete psychopath, but –

Why? Why go through the trouble without executing the follow-through?

And then all at once it hits him, as hard and as sure as if someone had smacked him upside the head with a cricket bat.

_“Beautiful child you’ve got there, Dr. Watson.”_

An envelope with his name on the cover:

_“You can’t protect him anymore than you could protect them.”_

The children aren’t the endgame. This has nothing to do with murdered MPs or homophobic vigilantes.

Sherlock and John.  _They’re_  the endgame. This is a trap and they’re the mice.

_“You can’t protect him…”_

Connor isn’t ‘him.’ The murderer knows exactly who Sherlock Holmes is. He knows that there’s only one person in Sherlock’s life he’d scorch the earth for in order to keep safe. ‘Him’ isn’t Connor. ‘Him’ is –

 _“John,”_ Sherlock breathes already reaching blindly for his phone while screaming for Mycroft as loudly as his voice will allow.

Mycroft’s minion is the first to blow through the door, followed by his brother and then Lestrade, holding Connor on his hip. But Sherlock barely sees them. Barely clocks the paleness of Mycroft’s skin or the tears in the little boy’s eyes.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he begs against the mobile, a quiet litany falling upon a deaf ear.

Because John’s phone rings out, over and over, each answerless attempt more devastating than the last. 

xxxxxx

Two hours and twenty-seven phone calls later, John is still nowhere to be found.

 


	7. For Those Lives That Tear at the Seams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments that Greg will remember.
> 
> Emily Prescott in Sixth Form. Graduation from the Academy. Sherlock Holmes' bloodshot eyes the first time he went looking for a hit and found himself at a crime scene instead. And this night. This night will stay with Greg for a very long while.

There are moments that Greg will remember.

Emily Prescott in Sixth Form. Graduation from the Academy. Sherlock Holmes' bloodshot eyes the first time he went looking for a hit and found himself at a crime scene instead. And this night. This night will stay with Greg for a very long while.

They’re sitting in his room poring over the evidence files and making sure Connor doesn’t eat anything of import when the shout comes, heart stopping and ear piercing in its desperation.

_“Mycroft!”_

Connor immediately cries “Pa!” and Greg scoops him up into his arms as they leave the pile of papers discarded in the middle of the bed. Sally is pulling her gun out as they head into the hallway where Mycroft’s man (O’Donnell?) is backing up to kick down the door.

It flies back with a loud crack and O’Donnell enters first followed swiftly by Mycroft. Connor is holding tight to Greg’s collar and he runs his hand up and down the boy’s back in an effort to calm him, even as his own heart thumps in his chest.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, but the man doesn’t hear him.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, murmuring “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” over and over, phone held so tightly in his hand, his knuckles are white.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yells and his brother finally turns –

And the expression Greg sees on his face is not one he’s likely to forget.

“They have John,” is the only thing that leaves his mouth and O’Donnell quickly disappears from the room as Sally mutters an expletive.

“Jesus,” Greg whispers.

“Did they make contact? Specify demands?” Mycroft asks, all business, but Sherlock shakes his head. 

“I  _know_ they have him. This was never about your goddamn government officials. This was about me. About  _us._  They have John to get to me and now he’s not answering his phone!” Sherlock cries, voice cracking, eyes manic. They're bloodshot again, and Greg knows cocaine has nothing to do with it.

Mycroft sighs and pulls out his phone while Sally mans the door, sparing an occasional glance over her shoulder for the men in the room.

Sherlock finally looks at up at him, the plea plain in his red-rimmed eyes. “Greg. Please.”

And that above all things tells him how serious the situation is. How badly Sherlock is handling the matter at hand. It’s not Geoff or Gavin or Graham.

Greg.

“Sherlock,” the detective murmurs as he crouches down in front of the man. “We’ll get him back.”

“I suppose it’s too much to ask if he’s still wearing his wedding ring?” Mycroft drawls and Greg winces, recalling the events that led to its removal.

“No,” Sherlock croaks. “It's in my pocket.”

Mycroft rubs his forehead in a rare show of frustration and sighs. “Of course it is." 

Greg glares. “Hey, you could be a bit more sympathetic.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Greg assumes he doesn't get chastened often. "Apologies." 

“Oh, Lestrade, sympathy is not my brother’s forte," Sherlock murmurs, reaching a finger out and tracing Connor's cheek softly. Greg shifts the boy in order to offer him to his surrogate father, but Sherlock is up on his feet before he has the chance. 

Connor whimpers and Greg presses a quick kiss to his hair. "It's okay, little man." 

It's been a while since he's held someone this small. His own kids are well into their teen years and he's only had one case involving a child under the age of five in the last year or two. He's grateful because kid cases are never easy, but still. It's nice. Brings back memories of nappies and midnight feedings and afternoon cuddles. 

He holds Connor a bit tighter as he stands and follows the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes, sharing a look with Sally as the man goes barreling down the stairs, all but crashing into the lobby.  

He expects Mia to be cowering in the corner, but she stands in the center of the room, directing Mycroft's team into the deserted bar to set up camp. 

"I'll get some coffee and tea set up," she says, gesturing to a guy in an apron who abruptly disappears into the inn's kitchen. "And Adele's bakery down the street will send over some scones." 

"No reservations?" he asks as he stands next to her. 

"We only had two. I canceled them. And it's not like the bar does a banging business for anyone not staying here. Not with the tavern next door." She tears her gaze away from the melee and focuses on him. "Is it true?" she asks, biting her lower lip. "They've taken Mr. Watson?" 

Greg nods.

“Shit. He's a nice man,” she adds after a brief moment.

"He is," he breathes, feeling his gut clench as they both watch Sherlock terrorize the local law enforcement. "I should probably..." he trails off and Mia offers him a wry grin. 

"Referee?" 

"Exactly." He adjusts Connor, but the boy just presses his face into Greg's neck and murmurs something that sounds heartbreakingly like "Da." 

The air whooshes out of Greg's chest in a heavy sigh. He needs to jump in, get his hands dirty, do  _something_ , but he can't exactly do that with a child in his arms. 

"Sal," he calls and Donovan turns from the table she was bent over to join him.

"They just pulled up his mobile's GPS." 

"And?" 

"Down an alley, likely tossed en route." 

"Bollocks." 

"Still should check it out. Need me to take him?"

 "I'm sorry," he winces, "do you mind?" 

"Nah. There are enough hands on deck at the moment. I'd like to think John would prefer me watch the kid. C'mon, you," she groans theatrically as she pulls Connor into her arms. "Goodness, you're heavy." 

The boy smiles shyly, before reaching out to toy with the silver necklace at her throat.

"You're good at that," Greg offers and Sally rolls her eyes. 

"Don't worry. I won't be trading my badge in for it any time soon." 

He barks out a laugh, but his gaze finds Sherlock once more, stalking Mycroft like a hurricane around the eye of the storm. 

"He's gonna want to go with you, you know," Sally murmurs after a moment. 

Greg sighs and watches as Sherlock pulls at his hair and snaps something back in his brother's face. He can't quite make out what he's saying, but the wild hand gestures are giving him a pretty good idea.

“He’ll need to take a sedative first. Here, let me borrow your car key – ”

“If our mistakes cost John Watson his life, I will never forgive you!" Sherlock suddenly roars and the entire room comes to a blistering standstill. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs, low and cool, but in the sudden silence, his voice is thunderous. "Do you really think the blame lies solely at my feet?”

"Mycroft," Greg snaps, but the damage has been done. Sherlock looks as though he's been punched in the solar plexus, stumbling back a step and staring at his brother as if he never thought he'd actually stoop that low. 

But Greg knows better. This is a man who's held the strings of top government officials, who's toppled regimes with merely a phone call, and who holds his brother's well-being above all things. And if that means hurting him to save him, then that's precisely what Mycroft Holmes will do. 

Greg just wishes he didn't have to be such a dick about it. 

He steps forward and lets his arm brush Sherlock's, motioning for Sally to join him. 

"Sherlock, let's go upstairs. Come on. Take your son."

"He's not - "

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Greg orders sharply, features immediately softening. "Come on," he tries again more quietly, but Sherlock doesn't move.

"I - " his lost gaze darts between the boy in Sally's arms and the DI, never able to land on one for more than a fleeting moment. "I can't," he finally says, turning and all but fleeing the room.

xxxxxx

_Dripping water. Cold concrete. Distant waves._

_A voice asking questions. The same questions over and over._

_Blood on his temple. Pain in his ribs. Numbness in his leg._

_“Do you think he’ll come for you?”_

_“Do you think he’s even noticed you’re gone?”_

 xxxxxx

Sally peeks her head into the room to check on the sleeping child and immediately wraps her jacket tighter around her body at the breeze that ruffles her hair.

There’s a tiny balcony off the room, barely deep enough to fit a chair, overlooking the slope of the hill that ends in the beach and the distant sea. The sun is setting and Sherlock sits with his legs dangling through the railing, blowing cigarette smoke into the ever-darkening sky. The door is cracked, but only a bit to protect the boy currently sleeping in the cot in the corner. 

"How'd you get in here?" she whispers as she pulls the door back and joins him. "I put him down nearly an hour ago and the key is definitely still in my pocket." 

He shrugs. "Picked the lock."

"Thank God you're on our side because you'd be a formidable foe to behold." 

Out of the corner of her, she sees his mouth quirk up. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." 

She snorts. "Well that's telling." 

They sit silently for a moment and she watches the smoke curl, licking the air before dissipating. 

"John'll kill you, you know." 

"I'd be happy to have him around to do so," is Sherlock's simple reply and it cuts her somewhere deep. 

She had always assumed he didn't have a heart. That his insides whirred with the metal clang of gears and bolts instead of flesh and blood. And all it took was a diminutive Army doctor to change all that. 

She had seen Sherlock's face at the pool, as medics attempted (with little success) to place shock blankets on them both. Bomb disposal had already packed away the semtex vest that had been strapped to John Watson, but the Freak still stared at him like he'd be blown to bits if he breathed wrong. It was the crack in the veneer. A glimpse of the very real man beneath the armor he wore. 

How wrong she had been. 

A car door slams, directing their attention to the street where another group of officers are jumping in a car and tearing away from the curb. 

“I should be out there," he murmurs, watching them. 

“No. You’re right where you're supposed to be.”

He meets her gaze and she stares meaningfully at the sleeping child in the cot just beyond the open doorway. He huffs out a breath and flicks his cigarette onto the ground below. 

"I was awful to him."

"To John?" 

He nods. "Purposefully so." 

Sally remains quiet because she knows that he doesn't need to hear any platitude she might say. If anything, he's the one that needs to do the talking and his usual audience is indisposed at the moment. She can't give Sherlock John Watson, but she can at least fill in for the time being. 

"I needed space. I can't... think when I'm around him. I mean, I can, but - "

"He's all you can think  _about_ ," she finishes for him.

He remains silent and she wonders if this is the first time he's ever addressed this with anyone, this veritable elephant in the room. 

"Speaking of space," she says, nudging his shoulder and letting him off the hook, "you can't ignore the kid forever." 

He glances over his shoulder at the child before turning back and pulling another cigarette out of the pack he got from God knows where. "On the contrary, I'm the last person who should be put in charge of a child. In fact, I've already gotten him kidnapped once. A fact I'm sure he'll only be more than willing to tell his therapist about in the years to come." 

Sally stares at him wide-eyed for a moment before barking out a laugh. "Sherlock, he's barely two! He won't remember this." But it's the wrong reply because something behind those blue eyes immediately shutters.  

"That's what I said to John," he says after a moment. “I told him we should give Connor back. I essentially said he was pointless. ‘A useless prop.” He scoffs and rubs at his face. “I don’t blame John for going. I wouldn’t want me either.”

“The day John Watson doesn't want you," she says, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from his hand and throwing them over the railing, "is the day I get on my knees again for Philip Anderson." 

Sherlock's face contorts in an expression of disgust and his body visibly shudders. "That visual was unnecessary. And sincerely unwanted." 

She laughs and can't help but agree. 

Sherlock stares down at the discarded pack of cigarettes amongst the bushes below, probably contemplating going down there and fetching them, before he finally, quietly admits: “I can’t do this without him." 

Sally lets out a breath. She always thought she'd crow when the great Sherlock Holmes finally admitted weakness, but she can't. And more importantly, she doesn't want to.

“Yes, you can," she whispers, squeezing his arm. "Do this  _for_ him.”

He visibly swallows and, after a moment, nods. 

"Come on. You're doing no one any good up here, including the sleeping child. He's fine. There are two men on the door." She stands with difficulty and brushes herself off.  

He remains seated though, examining the ring residing on his fourth finger. John's sits there next to his, dual platinum bands kissing in the brightening moonlight. She pretends not to notice.

"I’ll help you terrorize your older brother," she sing-songs and he tilts his head, as if weighing the options.  

"Yeah, all right.”

xxxxxx

_Whistling. More dripping. Humming._

_A happy tune that belies the harshness of the environment._

_He shifts his body - an immensely regrettable decision._

_“Do you think he’ll come for you?”_

_Hands tied at the wrists. Feet bound at the ankles._

_“Do you think he’s even noticed you’re gone?”_

xxxxxx

Ever since Sherlock was eight-years-old, Mycroft has been waiting for another Redbeard. Another tie on his brother's precious heart to knot and tug before snapping viciously and without mercy. 

_"Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"_

It had been a joke – a dig at his brother’s expense – but he knew the moment he clapped eyes on John Watson that he was quite possibly the most dangerous temptation Sherlock would ever face; a pull more powerful than any drug or case.

He was attachment. Sentiment. 

Home.

Which is why Mycroft needs to get him back as soon as humanly possible before Sherlock goes down a path he cannot follow. He nearly has so many times already.

“Status update?” he barks and O’Donnell hands him a file full of old information and dead ends. “Unacceptable,” he clips, thrusting it back into his hands. 

"Yes, sir," the agent replies before disappearing to make something better happen. 

His phone alerts him that Sherlock is on the move once more and he braces himself as the GPS embedded in the wedding band is heading in this general direction. The indicator light shows John at his side, which can only mean his brother is wearing his husband’s ring somewhere on his person.

“Oh Sherlock,” he breathes, before closing the app and switching over to the phone, clicking on Lestrade’s contact.

“Yeah?” the DI’s voice snaps a moment later and Mycroft can tell by his tone they’ve got nothing, yet he asks anyway.

“News?”

“Well, a local fisherman – no, don’t touch that – Shit, sorry, hang on a tic,” Greg says, voice going distant as he yells at some unseen local lackey: “What the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t photograph that, photograph _that._ Christ.” His voice comes back through the receiver clear once more. “Anyway, a local fisherman saw a man matching John’s description by the wharf roughly twenty minutes before Sherlock first tried to call him, so we can at least narrow down the approximate time of his capture to sometime between 4:55 and 5:15pm.”

“He’ll be pleased to hear that,” Mycroft replies, because he has to tell Sherlock _something_ or the man might actually go completely mental. And Mycroft has seen Sherlock completely mental. He does not wish to do so again.

“We think – yes, _there,_ ” he yells again, swearing softly, before returning to Mycroft. “Idiots the lot of them. We think we found the location where he was taken. Lots of scuff marks. Doesn’t look like much of a fight, though.”

“Could have been drugged,” Mycroft supplies but Lestrade makes a negative sound.

“Fuck. There’s some blood here. Blow to the head most like.” He’s quiet and Mycroft can practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Frankly, I could use him.”

“No.” Sherlock will only hinder the investigation. Too much emotion. Too much clouded judgment. “You’ll get me instead,” he replies and Lestrade snorts.

“Thought you didn’t do field work.”

“I make exceptions.” For John Watson, he will. “Don’t let anyone touch the scene until I get there.”

“You got it,” Lestrade replies and Mycroft abruptly hangs up as Sherlock and Sergeant Donovan descend the stairs… with Connor in Sherlock’s arms.

“He’s supposed to be sleeping,” he offers and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Well, he woke up. Even _you_ must know babies don’t exactly adhere to proposed schedules.”

“Indeed.” He thinks of the many times Sherlock (not unlike a baby himself) did not do as he was told.

“What do you have?” his little brother snaps and Mycroft internally sighs.

“Probable time and possible scene of abduction.”

“Let’s go.”

“No, you’re staying here,” he replies and Sherlock looks at him with a disgusted, abhorrent gaze; not unlike the one he once bestowed on Charles Augustus Magnussen. The thought makes Mycroft’s stomach turn.

“Like hell I am.”

“I will go. You know my deductive reasonings are on par with yours.” He resists the urge to say his are better, because really, that will help absolutely no one right now. “Sergeant Donovan will accompany me and I will be sure she’s in touch with you every fifteen minutes.”

Sergeant Donovan raises an eyebrow that says _Oh will I?_ but doesn’t contradict him. He’s eternally grateful.

“This is – ” Sherlock cuts himself off, harshly running his free hand through his hair. “This is _bullshit_. You have to let me be a part of the investigation. I’m the only one who can get John back!”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“God _dammit_ , Mycroft! Will you just listen for once!” he spits as Connor whimpers, and Mycroft tempers his reply.

“You’re needed here.”

“I need John!” His movements are jerky and his voice is getting more and more agitated.

 “Sherlock, calm down – ”

"I didn't tell him!" he suddenly yells and the entire room goes silent.

"Tell him what?" Mycroft asks softly and Sherlock opens his mouth but no sound comes. It doesn't need to. They all know what he was going to say; he can probably read it in the pity in their eyes. “Sherlock, think rationally.”

But he can’t, Mycroft knows this. John has been kidnapped, taking all of Sherlock’s rationality with him.

“We’ll take the child,” one of his agents remarks, stepping forward, and Sherlock immediately jerks back. 

“Connor. His name is Connor,” is his scathing reply.

“Sherlock – ”

“No," he directs at his brother before turning to the man standing with his arms out. "And no, you cannot take him. He knows me. John would – John would never forgive me if I left him alone with strangers.”

Mycroft tilts his head and smiles in a softly sad way he hasn’t directed at Sherlock since he was eight. “And you’d never forgive yourself.”

“No,” he whispers, voice breaking. Mycroft breathes out a heavy breath.

“You’ll stay?”

Sherlock nods jerkily before turning to Donovan. “You’ll text?”

“Every fifteen minutes,” she replies, squeezing his arm.

A tempestuous relationship even at the best of times, it seems Sergeant Donovan and Sherlock have come to an understanding. Mycroft is glad of it. Sherlock needs an ally in this and Lestrade is not enough to help bear the burden of Dr. Watson’s disappearance.

Mycroft has always been his ally, but it’s a fact that his baby brother takes pains to delete every chance he gets. But if he can do this, if he can bring John Watson home, then he will consider it one of his life’s greatest accomplishments.

He’d do anything for his brother.

Now it’s time to prove it.

xxxxxx

_Ropes chafing pale skin. Blood crusting well-worn twine._

_Do you think he’ll come for you?_

_The voice has stopped asking the question, but his mind supplies it all the same._

_Do you think he’s even noticed you’re gone?_

_I don't know._

xxxxxx

Sherlock’s breath ghosts across Connor’s forehead as they slowly climb the stairs to the room. The boy is a comforting weight in his arms and he still smells faintly like powder and John’s aftershave, which is perhaps why Sherlock keeps burying his nose in his hair.

Connor rubs at his tired eyes, dissolving into tears again, and Sherlock curses his earlier outburst, no matter how warranted it was. He probably terrified him, and as the only parent he has at the moment, he can’t afford alienating him. Connor needs him. And he needs Connor probably more so.

"Shh, love," he whispers as he unlocks the door to the room, the endearment sounding odd and foreign on his tongue. It’s something more likely to come out of John's mouth than his own, but it seems to do the trick. Connor quiets until only the occasional whimper or snuffle escapes his swollen lips and red nose. "Shhh, love," he murmurs over and over until even those sounds die down and the boy buries his face in Sherlock's neck, tiny fingers latching onto the hair at his nape. "That's it," he breathes, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he tugs the blankets back and slides into the bed, resting the boy into the crook of his arm. “That’s it.”

His breathing eventually evens out and Sherlock studies him, from his carefully frowning brows to the pout in the bow of his lips. Mycroft was mad to give them a child, but right now, this tiny sleeping human is the only thing keeping Sherlock from losing his precious mind. From tearing the inn to the ground and laying waste to anyone in his path.

Usually John occupies that role: caretaker, gatekeeper, moral compass. But John is now the cause of all that hurts, so Sherlock holds tight to the boy at his side, drawing the kind of steadfast comfort usually only found in oatmeal jumpers, Thai takeaway, and afternoon tea.

“I’ll get him back,” he promises into the quiet night. “I’ll bring him home.”

He prays fate doesn’t make a liar out of him.

xxxxxx

_“Do you think he’ll come for you?”_

_Yes. He always does._

_“Do you think he’s even noticed you’re gone?”_

_God I hope so._


	8. For This Dance We’ll Move with Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opens a new message and begins to type, because even though John's phone is in a clear plastic evidence bag downstairs, he needs to say some things. And he needs to say them to John, in the only way he knows how: 
> 
> You've been gone for  
> three hours and forty-  
> seven minutes. It's  
> hateful. - SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being longer than I initially anticipated...

Sally’s first text comes in exactly fifteen minutes after she leaves the inn, just as he gets Connor settled and sleeping soundly against his side: 

**Your brother’s a wanker.**

He snorts into Connor’s hair, but another one buzzes a moment later:

**But he loves you.**

He rolls his eyes and tries not to make a disgusted sound, lest he wake the child still curled up next to him.

He opens a new message and begins to type, because even though John's phone is in a clear plastic evidence bag downstairs, he needs to say some things. And he needs to say them to John, in the only way he knows how. 

 **You've been gone**  
**for three hours and**  
**forty-seven minutes.**  
**It's hateful. - SH**

xxxxxx 

He hasn’t been in this much pain since he blinked his eyes open in a drunk tank to find Sherlock passed out on the only cot the cinderblock cell had to offer. Didn't even bother to budge over, the selfish git. 

He groans and his head lolls to the side ( _seated upright then, hands tight behind his back, feet tied at the ankles to the chair he sits upon_ ). His fingers are numb, so he's been bound for a while. Two hours, at least. Probably more. He won't be able to move his shoulder when he's released. 

If he's released. 

He finally opens his eyes ( _sluggish movements, blurry vision, probable concussion_ ) and blesses the low-level lighting. It's a warehouse of some sort – dilapidated and neglected, metal walls rusted together and rotting insulation growing mold by the pound. The air is humid yet cold, each inhalation lacking in the oxygen he so desperately needs. That could also be the broken ribs talking. 

Something in the corner catches his eye, though, and he squints in the dark, finally making out three pairs of eyes staring back at him. Three children, dirty, but healthy. They're quiet – eerily so for how young they are – and John wonders briefly what the punishment is for disobedience. He finds he'd rather not know.

“Fuck,” he whispers, tongue barely forming the word. His lips are wet with saliva and the coppery taste of blood. It runs down his chin to drip on his already stained jumper. 

“Ah, Dr. Watson, lovely of you to join us,” a voice says and he waits until the man walks around into his field of vision before sitting opposite him, elbows propped on his knees like they’re having afternoon tea.

“The ice cream shop," John murmurs. 

“Yes, the ice cream shop. Very good. Smarter that you look," the man replies and John doesn't know why  _Pretty damn smart then_ comes unbidden to his mind. Perhaps something Sherlock said once. Yes, once while coming out of a drug-induced stupor on a plane that was John's damnation and then salvation in entirely too quick a succession.

The man snaps his fingers and John realizes he's been drifting. His vision focuses as much as it can on his captor – he's gray, but not nearly as old as he appeared in the shop. He doesn't look as kindly as he did then either, returning the most precious of items to them. It was probably John's relief and Sherlock's panic that made them blind to the clues in front of them, but then love is like that. It's a pair of rose-tinted glasses that make the world a warmer place. 

"Tell me about Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the man says and John smiles. It contains no humor.

"No." 

He instructs his body not to tense up a second before the fist collides with his temple.

xxxxxx

It must be sometime after two in the morning.  

Sherlock sent his last text to John at 1:07am and he's not sure how long he's been staring at the steady rise and fall of Connor's chest as he breathes deep in sleep, face still pressed to Sherlock's chest in utter trust. He twitches every so often but is otherwise calm. For someone who's been plagued by nightmares since an abrupt return to civilian life and who lived with someone who was plagued for far longer, it's a marvel, this sleep of the innocent. It's calming his overwrought mind in ways cocaine never could. Imagine that.

He hears the click of the lock a moment before the door opens and he knows it's Lestrade by the steady tread of his footsteps on the carpet. 

"Sherlock?" 

"Yes?" he answers quietly. 

"We think we know where he is. Could use your input, though." 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, wary of disturbing the boy in his arms. 

"Donovan'll stay with him," Lestrade says as if reading his mind – Sherlock really must learn to give him more credit. 

"All right." He gently slides out and lowers Connor's head to the pillow as Sally enters the room, giving Sherlock a nod as he passes. 

The hall is bright and he rubs at his face as Lestrade leads him back down through the lobby and into the pub. Its tables have been covered in maps, blueprints, and photos of the town and local police mingle along with Mycroft's men, talking to each other, barking orders down phones – all working to bring John home. 

Mia is still behind the bar pouring coffee and the weight of the guilt he feels at ever suspecting her lands heavy on his chest. She catches his eye and gives him a reassuring smile as he passes, which is more than he deserves. He returns it as best he can before focusing on the table and the giant red circle on the map that lies on it. 

"That's where he is?" he rasps, voice rough from disuse. 

"CCTV matched plates from a van that was in the vicinity when Connor was taken with one heading due west towards an abandoned shipyard. It's the logical destination," Lestrade explains. "Derelict warehouse, one of many. The shipyard went out of business before CCTV was even invented so we can't confirm, but it's an incredibly educated guess." 

Mycroft frowns. "Something's not right. It's too easy."

"If they're sloppy, then they want to be caught," Lestrade says, for once getting straight to the point. Sherlock appreciates it because he doesn't have the energy for anything other than the objective.

"They want me," he says simply. "And the quickest and surest way to get me is John." 

"Sherlock – " Lestrade begins, but he cuts him off. 

"It just is. Moriarty knew it. Magnussen knew it. Mary knew it. And you know it," he says, this time to his brother. "A chemical defect found in the losing side, yes?" 

But Mycroft doesn't give him his usual sniff of disdain. He merely tilts his head and looks like he regrets ever letting those words pass his lips.

"How educated is your guess?" Mycroft asks Lestrade instead and the DI glances at Sherlock, eyebrows raised as if asking  _Well?_

His sharp gaze flies over the map, the CCTV photos, and the blueprints of the abandoned shipyard. "Very." 

"Let's go then," Lestrade says, glancing up to find Donovan standing in the doorway with a cranky Connor. "Perfect timing." 

"He sensed you were gone and turned on me," she murmurs, stepping forward and handing him off to Sherlock. "Traitor," she jokes with a wink as she smooths her hand over the boy's hair.

Sherlock presses his lips to his forehead, noting how warm he is ( _been crying_ ), and gently rocks him back and forth. 

Now that he knows where John is, that he has his presumed location marked in red biro on a map, he needs to go to him. Immediately. And yet –

Connor presses his wet face into Sherlock's neck and inhales a wobbly breath. 

Sherlock swallows hard and glances up to find Mycroft's knowing gaze on him. 

“Go. You need to be with John.” 

“But –  ” he glances down at Connor once again who’s looking up at him with the kind of trust he didn’t think he’d ever instill in anyone. The kind of trust John bestowed on him after only one aborted dinner at Angelo’s.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says and his voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I’ll take care of him. Go.”

With great reluctance, he hands him over and thankfully Connor makes it easier by going willingly. He'll have to tell the kid not to get used to it. Mycroft is not to be trusted except in dire circumstances. And even those are on a case by case basis. 

But of course now that the baby is no longer in his arms, his urgent need to  _do something_  is making him want to crawl out of skin, to grab the nearest cop and shake him violently, to take Mycroft's umbrella and beat him over the head. Connor is the only thing saving his brother from that particular fate at the moment.  

"Come on, come on, come on," he mutters under his breath, bouncing on his toes and committing the shipyard's layout to memory. He'd set out on his own, but the keys to the Land Rover are up in the room. He could hot wire a panda car, but he doesn't think Lestrade would appreciate that. The fact that he's considering Lestrade's feelings at all on the matter could be called progress, he supposes.

A loud noise breaks him from his concentration, the thud of a beer mug on wood, and he glares in the general direction of the bar at Mia, who slowly and purposefully pulls a set of car keys out of her pocket and places them by the taps. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but she merely puts a finger to her lips, before walking away and leaving them there. 

He takes a moment to recognize that John would consider what he's about to do a bit not good, but he frankly just doesn't care. If the roles were reversed, John would understand and he'd act no differently. After all, it's not like he waited for the police when he jumped into a cab and followed Sherlock to Roland Kerr College without a backwards glance.

He inches closer to the bar and rests his elbow on it for a moment, before leaning over, nicking the keys, and sliding them into his pocket. He spares a glance for Connor in Mycroft's arms, the only set of eyes still watching him and he manages a small smile, which the boy carefully returns.  

Everyone else is so preoccupied with their preparations that no one notices Sherlock slip out the door. 

xxxxxx

"Mister? Mister?"  

John can hear the voice but piecing together its source is proving too much for his battered brain to handle. 

"Mister? Are you okay?"

_The kids._

Alice... something. Jenna? Gemma? But the voice belongs to a boy. There was a boy, wasn't there? Yes, there was. Began with an E. Sherlock would remember. Edward? Evan? Ah –  

Ethan. Ethan Ashford-Wilson. 

The man from before whose name he still doesn't know hollers and the boy immediately quiets. John doesn't need to open his eyes to be able to see the fear on his face. 

“Leave him alone,” he finally says, forcing the air from his lungs, straining his broken ribs.

“Well, well, well,” the man says, “look who’s come to play again."

xxxxxx

It had been the longest ten-minute drive he'd ever taken, but eventually Sherlock turns off his headlights and parks outside the busted gates that read Smithwick and Sons. The dead of night air has chilled and he pulls his coat tighter around his body, heart thumping as he ducks through a hole in the fence.

It doesn’t take him long to find the abandoned warehouse where John is no doubt being kept. And even if he hadn’t been sure, the lights certainly would have given it away. Sloppy, indeed.

There’s a broken window on the south side of the building, large enough for him slip through if he sheds his coat. His lack of armor is a price he’s willing to pay if it gets him to John that much sooner. It hits the ground with a quiet thud and if everything goes arse over teacups, at least Lestrade will find it eventually.

He shimmies through the window, managing to only slice his forearm once (sparing his custom shirt) and wincing as he inhales the stale salty air.

Someone is talking softly, but there’s a sinister undercurrent. He knows that voice.

_“Beautiful child you’ve got there, Dr. Watson.”_

Sherlock tamps down on the sudden surge of anger and manages to remember to silence his phone as he maneuvers his way closer to the man. He can’t see him yet, or John for that matter – there’s too much equipment in the way and the low lighting is not helping matters. Still, he continues to move quietly because he needs to put eyes on John. He needs to know what state he’s in if only to quell the various worst case scenarios running rampant through his mind.

He emerges from behind a rusty keel support and crouches down, finally laying eyes on the man, pacing back and forth in front of John, who’s currently tied to a chair and facing away from him.

The man, though. He sees the man and something about his face is eerily familiar. He didn’t clock it at the ice cream shop. Didn’t pay attention to anything beyond _Connor safe. Connor in his arms,_ and he curses his stupidity.

He leans out a bit further and is able to see John’s profile caked with blood.

"Have you come to a conclusion?" the man asks and John's frown comes 1.2 seconds slower than it usually does. Concussions do that, he supposes.

"'bout what?" he slurs, spitting blood on the ground.

"Do you think he's even noticed you're gone?" 

Sherlock sucks in a breath and holds it.  _No_. John can't possibly think that he wouldn't come. 

John chuckles lowly. “Doubt it. We had a pretty big row. Your timing was impeccable, I must say.”

The man’s eyes narrow as he pulls a knife out from the sheath on his belt. “Do you think he’ll come if I send a piece of you to him?”

“Probably’ll shove it under a microscope.” 

Sherlock feels ill, listening to John’s words. His indictment of him. Could he possibly think that?

Yes, of course he could.

“Depends on how big a piece I cut off,” the man replies and Sherlock has to physically swallow down bile.

But John – precious, clever, brave, glorious, _stupid_ John – merely smiles a bloody smile.

“If you could start with my right hand, I’d appreciate it. Do a lot of things with my left,” he says and he has the audacity to wink _._

If Sherlock didn’t love him before, he certainly does now, the insufferable _moron_.

“I’m going to get a sharper knife,” the man says, flipping the plenty-sharp one still in his hand. “Don’t go anywhere.”

With every step away from John he takes, Sherlock’s inhales come a bit easier until he hears the telltale slam of the metal door on the other side of the room.

John slumps, all manner of braggadocio gone as he groans and gasps for breath that comes much too harshly.

Sherlock is moving before he even realizes it, knowing that if he doesn’t touch John, if he doesn’t put hand to flesh and feel the heartbeat beneath his fingertips that he will lose what little control he has on his composure.  

He loses it anyway.

xxxxxx

He smells Sherlock before he sees him. That damn poncy aftershave that John could pick out of a flower shop.

Even if his brain was working properly, he’s not sure he’d be able to adequately quantify the relief he feels as Sherlock comes skidding to a stop in front of him.

“Oh Jesus, John,” he breathes, voice breaking and hands trembling where they gently grab his shoulders.

John tries to shake his head as Sherlock drops to his knees. "You should see the other guy.”

Sherlock chokes on a sob. "Shut up, you stupid man." 

"Smarter than I look." He smiles and Sherlock's face goes slack.

"Pretty damn smart then," he breathes before leaning forward and kissing him. Hard.

Well that's new, John thinks a little hysterically, pondering the fact that he must taste horrible with all the blood around his split lips. It's brief and painful, but also one of the most amazing things he's ever experienced because this isn't for the case. This is real. This is  _them_. 

“Knew you’d come,” he whispers as Sherlock pulls away, face nearly crumbling.

“Did you?”

“’Course I did, you git. Fooled ya, didn’t I.”

“Idiot,” he breathes, kissing him again, and clarity immediately slams into John’s head.

“Connor?”

“Fine. Misses you. Mycroft’s probably feeding him cake,” Sherlock mutters, tugging at John’s ropes.

“Speaking of kids…”

“Saw them.” Sherlock spares the children in the corner a glance and manages a small smile that hopefully looks a lot more reassuring than he feels. “Goddamn these knots,” he curses, tugging harder, desperation clear in his features.

John leans forward as much as he can, hissing against the pain, and presses a kiss to the crease in Sherlock’s forehead in an effort to smooth his brow. Just because he can.

"Well isn't that a pretty picture,” the voice says and John’s stomach plummets. “I thought you were just playing poufs, but I'm always happy to be proven wrong." 

The man enters the circle of light behind Sherlock, stance relaxed, even though he’s unarmed.

Sherlock pulls away, standing to face him, and John manages to rein in his noise of distress. 

“It’s becoming common knowledge that all you have to do is put Dr. Watson here in mortal peril to entrap the great Sherlock Holmes,” the man says and Sherlock keeps his body partially blocking John, the protective bastard.

"I know you," Sherlock breathes, confusion in his tone that hints at a deeper familiarity. A history that goes further back than their initial brush in the ice cream shop. 

“Yes,” the man replies. “Bet you can’t tell me my name though.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, likely flying through his mind palace, and yet he won’t close his eyes because he’d never take them off the target. “Benjamin Wistrom.”

“Very good,” Wistrom replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “I must give you credit considering I’m pretty sure you were high at the time.”

“A year ago last May. Wife killed in a car accident. You suspected foul play.”

A year ago last May – John had just gotten married. His eyes prick and he swallows hard, struggling against his ropes. Sherlock was high and John had been on his honeymoon. 

“You were _convinced_ it was murder,” Sherlock continues and Wistrom slides his hands in his pockets.

“Her brakes had been cut.”

“Says you.”

Wistrom’s eyes flash dangerously and John doesn’t consider himself to be a particularly religious man, but he prays that Sherlock knows what he’s doing because glancing at the slim frame in front of him, he’s 97% sure Sherlock is unarmed.

“It was outside your jurisdiction and yet you came anyway.”

“I needed the distraction,” is Sherlock’s simple reply and something in John’s chest clenches painfully.

“You got it wrong.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Her brakes were _cut_!”

“Perhaps by _you_."

“Sherlock,” John manages and the taller man backs down and edges a bit closer to John. 

“So you killed two government officials and their husbands in the hope that I would be tempted by a serial killer. You knew it was outside my jurisdiction and yet you planned for Mycroft to be alerted.”

Wistrom smiles smugly. “Knew Big Brother would bring it to you. Knew you’d employ your pal here to play house for a while. Didn’t even bother changin’ your names, did ya. The arrogance."

Thankfully, Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait. Just simply asks, "And them?"

Wistrom glances at the children. “Nasty business, killing kids. Not really my style.”

“But you’ve kept them alive. Well fed even. That’s a woman’s touch.” He cocks his head. “And oddly enough, it was a woman who brought your case to me all those many months ago. Like you said, outside of my jurisdiction, unless brought to my attention by a private client.”

The door on the other side of the warehouse opens and John can’t make out much, but he knows a female silhouette when he sees it.

“Ah, of course,” Sherlock murmurs. “Sweet Emily from the Visitors Center.”

The bubbly girl he encountered just the other day ( _that very same day? Time is blurring_ ) steps into the light. Yes, he can see the family resemblance now. 

“Never took you for a murderer, Miss Emily, 27, brown hair, blue eyes.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she replies, all traces of sweetness gone from her tone. Her eyes are hardened like her father’s, but her hands are shaking.

“Don’t I know it. The Visitors Center is the perfect spot to go hunting, isn’t it. See all of the couples on a minibreak. Greet the locals hanging up flyers in the window. Like shooting fish in a barrel,” he clips before turning to Wistrom again. “Your wife used to help out in the ice cream shop. That’s how a key came into your possession. She was possibly even having an affair with the owner. The one who was also,” he fake gasps, “killed in a car accident. Now, John, what do we say about coincidence?”

But he can only manage a muttered, “So lazy.” His situation isn’t critical yet, but he’s rapidly losing the battle for consciousness.

Emily looks like a feral cat about to strike, but it’s Wistrom that unnerves John the most. His tone has been almost cordial throughout this whole ordeal. Polite, even as he beat John into the bloody mess he is now.

He is the placid ocean before a squall. The still air before a tornado. And John really, _really_ doesn’t want to be around when he breaks.

“So what’s your big plan now?” Sherlock asks, moving the proceedings right along and John can only hang his head. “Kill me?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Wistrom condescends, wagging his finger as one would to a small, naughty child. “It was never about killing _you_.”

And in that moment, John knows that this won’t end well as three things happen simultaneously:

Wistrom raises a gun from somewhere, Emily screams "Wait!" and a shot rings out –

John doesn't even get Sherlock's name fully past his lips before the chair he’s on tilts sideways and his body drops to the ground.

xxxxxx

Lestrade hears the shot just as he's slamming the car door shut and, for a split second, he thinks ( _hopes_ ) that perhaps he's misheard but the sound that breaks the clear night air next makes his blood run cold. 

" _JOHN."_

"Fuck. Donovan, O'Donnell with me now!" he yells, pulling his gun out of his holster and sprinting into the building. He fires the first shot at the man with the gun and he drops immediately, clutching his shoulder. There’s a girl who looks vaguely familiar staring at the proceedings like she can’t quite believe how badly things spiraled out of control and then –

And then there’s Sherlock, bent over John’s fallen body, muttering, "Oh God, oh God, oh God” over and over as his hands, tacky with blood, struggle with the ropes that bind John to the chair.

There's a growing red stain on John’s abdomen, right side, down low – from a cursory glance, it looks like it could have missed anything vital, but there’s just so much goddamn blood. Lestrade freezes for a second, his fight or flight response failing him.

“S’fine.”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock barks, but his bite is marred by the tears that stream down his face. “Stupid, so stupid.”

“Smarter than I look,” John groans.

“Not you, me,” Sherlock replies and his voice is so broken, it jars something in the DI and he steps forward, sparing a glance for Donovan cuffing the girl none too gently and O’Donnell yelling at the shot perpetrator to “Shut the fuck up.”

“Jesus, John, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?” he asks and John manages a red smile, a sharp reminder of his internal injuries.

The smile fades into a gasp as Lestrade presses down on the wound _hard._ It’s awkward because John is still tied to the chair, leaning at an angle so Sherlock can get to his hands. Donovan finally comes over with a knife and saves Sherlock the trouble by slicing the ropes.

John grunts as he’s lowered flat onto his back and Lestrade presses even harder as he shares a look with Donovan over John’s body.

“Ambulance is three minutes out,” she murmurs.

“What do I do?” Sherlock asks, cupping John's cheek. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Get the kids,” John replies, voice weak, and of course he would. Of course he’d be more concerned with the well-being of the children than with the fact that he’s bleeding out on a concrete floor.

“We’ve got the kids, John,” Lestrade says. “They’re being bandaged and hydrated as we speak.”

“They okay?”

“They will be,” Donovan says this time, gently taking John’s head in her lap and holding him steady.

Lestrade presses harder and Sherlock’s hands join in, but despite the pressure, John’s precious blood keeps seeping through their fingers.

“Two minutes,” Donovan says, answering the unasked question.

“I’m A positive,” Sherlock suddenly blurts and Lestrade frowns.

“So?”

“So is John.”

“Figured you’d have deleted that,” John wheezes yet Sherlock’s gaze is a laser.

“I never delete you.”

“I’m sure the hospital has plenty, Sherlock,” Lestrade murmurs after a quiet, heavy moment.

“John, you have to tell me what to do,” Sherlock orders again and John grunts as he reaches a hand up and leaves a bloody smear on Sherlock’s cheek.

“You’re doing it.”

Lestrade swallows hard and resolutely doesn’t look at Sherlock as he leans down and presses his lips to John’s once more in a move that’s half kiss/half sob.

Donovan has her fingers pressed into John’s neck, monitoring his pulse as she glances at her watch. Lestrade watches her face most intently, leaving Sherlock and John to their moment, and it’s only when she truly starts to look alarmed that the paramedics burst through the door with a stretcher.

“Thank Christ,” he murmurs just as John loses consciousness, pulling a noise out of Sherlock’s throat the likes of which Lestrade would never like to hear again.

“Detective, I’ve got this,” the first paramedic says and Lestrade maneuvers himself out of the way, but doesn’t let up on the pressure until the young woman’s hand is right there taking his place.

Donovan gently lowers John’s head to the ground once more, but Sherlock doesn’t budge. He remains gripping John’s hand so hard his knuckles are white as he murmurs something only meant for John’s ears.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade murmurs, “you’ve got to let them take him.” 

“Okay,” he replies, but doesn’t move. Lestrade knows the signs of shock when he sees them and gently takes hold of the younger man’s shoulders.

“Come on,” he says with a gentle but firm tug and Sherlock finally moves away, but only lets go of John’s hand when the paramedic literally pries his fingers from it.

They follow the stretcher outside and the cool air seems to finally slap Lestrade from the fugue that had taken hold of him in the warehouse. He continues to grip Sherlock’s bicep and quickly pulls him toward the awaiting ambulance where John is being loaded.

“This is his husband. He’s going with,” he shouts over the sirens.

The paramedic nods and holds his arm out to help pull Sherlock into the back.

Sherlock turns and stares at him for a moment, looking so like that lost boy he came across ten years ago that Lestrade’s breath hitches.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promises.

Sherlock nods and the doors slam close.

xxxxxx

Mycroft has closed down the ward and cleared the waiting room by the time John’s ambulance arrives. Granted, it hadn’t been particularly bustling anyway, but most of the cases were able to be redirected to the town over. And thank goodness too, because when his brother blows through those doors as John is wheeled into surgery, he shouts vitriol at anyone that dare cross his path. A nurse finally threatens to sedate him and he deduces her on the spot, but she’s made of stronger stuff than most and suffers through his brother’s tongue lashing with a dignity and grace that even some of his agents lack.

Once Sherlock is done, though, he pauses for a moment and visibly sways, as if the weight of the past hour decided to press on his shoulders all at once, but Lestrade is quick to guide him to a chair.

“Are you all right?” the DI asks and Sherlock looks down, as if only now noticing the blood staining his once pristine shirt. 

“None of this is mine," he murmurs, holding a hand up in front of his face, pale skin tattooed a foreboding red. Lestrade is in much the same state.

“We’ll get cleaned up then,” Greg replies, tugging him to his feet once more and practically manhandling him into the men’s room.

Mycroft has never been more grateful for the detective than he is in this moment, addressing all of the concerns that Mycroft cannot seem to voice.

He slumps into Sherlock’s chair and allows himself a moment of fragility, far from Sherlock’s deductive gaze. He vowed once to always be there for him and he will continue to do just that, but only if his emotionally compromised moments are kept away from prying eyes. He needs to be the strong one. In affairs of the heart, he has to be because Sherlock was gone on John Watson years ago.

His brother and Lestrade return a moment later and only then does Sherlock seem to remember that he had left something incredibly important in his brother’s care last he saw him.

“Oh god, Connor!”

“With Anthea,” Mycroft replies calmly. “He seems to be quite smitten with her.”

“Takes after John then,” Sherlock says and Lestrade’s answering laugh is startling. Jarring amid the somber penance they all seemed to be paying.

It’s less than an hour before the Chief of Surgery strides into the waiting room, and they’re all on their feet before the doors swing shut behind him.

“Sir,” he begins, addressing Sherlock, “your husband is going to be just fine. Clear entry and exit. In and out. No vital organs damaged. Mostly blood loss, but we’re transfusing him now. His body took quite a beating though and he’ll need to be on some pain meds for a while. The ribs will likely give him the most trouble, but he should make a full recovery.”

Mycroft will never admit that the noise of relief leaves his lips, but he thinks Sherlock catches him at it, sending a sharp glance in his direction. Instead of the disdain or mockery he was expecting at his sudden lack of decorum, Sherlock merely steps forward and utters two words Mycroft had stopped hoping he would ever hear:

“Thank you.”

xxxxxx

He is allowed to visit John an hour into his recovery. The doctor had warned him that he’d still be unconscious, but Sherlock just needed to see him. To touch him (gently); to prove that John had made it and would continue to be the sun around which his planet orbited.

John would be so proud of his newfound solar system knowledge.

But right now, he looks infinitely small in the bed, his pale pallor making him blend in with the bland white hospital sheets. Sherlock inches toward the bed and takes a seat in the lone chair at its side, toying with a stray thread on the blanket that covers John’s fragile and broken body.

He licks his lips and swallows, listening to the steady beep that monitors John’s heart. It’s as soothing as a lullaby, and Sherlock eventually finds his lids drooping as his body firmly reminds him that it was not built to sustain all he put it through today – physically, but more particularly, emotionally.

He had wanted to be strong for John. Had wanted to be the stoic partner ready and able to stand his ground for whatever might be needed, but as he catalogues the bruises on John’s face, the IV in his arm, and the steady, miraculous _beep beep beep_ of his heart, Sherlock is overcome, pressing his forehead to the bed and breathing out a shaky breath.

"Don't you ever do that to me again,” he whispers. Pleads. “It is unacceptable." 

“S’lock?”

His head snaps up and he automatically takes John’s hand, mindful of the wires, as he runs his thumb back and forth across his skin.

“I’m right here,” he breathes, standing up to lean over the bed and put himself in John’s limited line of vision.

“Mm,” John smiles after a moment. “Missed you.”

Sherlock laughs out a sob and gently runs his other hand through John’s hair. “I missed you too.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough.”

John blinks slowly and scoots over with a gasp and a wince. “Stay,”

“Don’t do that,” Sherlock urges, trying to keep John still to no avail. The stubborn arse.

“’ve gotten used to sleeping in bed with you,” he replies, speech slightly slurred from the morphine.

“Likewise,” Sherlock murmurs and John’s eyes twinkle.

“Then get up here.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I already have,” he says and his voice breaks. “So much. I’m so sorry, John.”

John stares at him and blinks, a sudden clarity seeming to pass over his dilated pupils. “I’m sorry, too. Now get your arse up here.”

“Okay,” Sherlock replies, toeing off his shoes before gingerly climbing onto the bed and settling his head on the same pillow. He smells like disinfectant and blood and seawater, but underneath, there’s still something distinctly _John_ and Sherlock clings to that as he allows himself to nudge a bit closer, nose ghosting over the other man’s ear.

John sighs contentedly, or as contentedly as a shot man can, and laces their fingers together, pulling Sherlock’s arm across his torso, mindful of his wound and ribs, to settle himself in the slight concavity of Sherlock’s chest.

It’s nothing, really – a simple, everyday move that people do when seeking comfort – and yet Sherlock freezes because in this moment, this moment after almost-losing-John, it’s beautiful. Remarkable.

Sherlock places a kiss on John’s temple, mindful of the deep gash there. “I love you,” he whispers, taking some comfort in the fact that John likely won’t remember that tomorrow.

They can discuss it all later, the feelings and the future, preferably when the morphine and adrenaline are at a minimum. But right now, they have an entirely too small bed and entirely too rough sheets and Sherlock wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

John quickly drops off into the sleep of the heavily drugged, and Sherlock pulls the extra wedding band off his hand, momentarily lamenting its loss before rejoicing that he can now place it on John’s fourth finger again.

Back in its rightful place.


	9. For All of the Times We’ve Stopped, For All of the Things I’m Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He clears his throat and adjusts his grip on Sherlock's right arm, taking comfort in the fact that his left is still firmly around his waist, bracing him. 
> 
> "Ready?" he asks and John grunts, squeezing Sherlock's fingers that much tighter. 
> 
> "Let's find out." 
> 
> Greg smiles from the landing. "Want me to dangle a cup of tea like a carrot?" 
> 
> "Piss off," John laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much truth. Many angst. More fluff.
> 
> This is pretty much it, y'all. There will be a brief epilogue after this, but the immediate journey ends here. You've been wonderful. It's a joy and a privilege to write for you. xx

They're back to the damn 17 steps again. 

John stares up as Mrs. Hudson flutters around them, wringing her hands and going on about something – cakes and tea and Tesco probably. He clears his throat and adjusts his grip on Sherlock's right arm, taking comfort in the fact that his left is still firmly around his waist, bracing him. 

"Ready?" he asks and John grunts, squeezing Sherlock's fingers that much tighter. 

"Let's find out." 

Greg smiles from the landing. "Want me to dangle a cup of tea like a carrot?" 

"Piss off," John laughs before wincing at the pain in his side. He hasn't had a proper cuppa in 48 hours and though Greg jokes, it would probably do the trick.

It's slow-going, this careful climb, but Sherlock's hold on his hand is firm, the arm around his waist bracing, but gentle. They only have to pause twice before eventually making it to the living room. His shirt is damp with sweat from the trek and it feels like every hair follicle on his body hurts, but he made it. He's home. 

"Chair or couch?" Sherlock asks and John decides he'd really rather be horizontal. He can drink his tea from a straw if need be. Desperate times and all.

"Couch, I think," he replies and he leans his weight on Sherlock as the man lowers him down with more care than John originally thought him capable of. 

My, how things change. 

Pillows are quickly and efficiently placed behind him so he's slightly elevated (no straw necessary then) and he lets out a slightly obscene sound as Greg hands him that glorious cuppa. Sherlock continues to stand beside him studying him and yet trying to look like he's  _not_ studying him, which creates a kind of befuddled air that John finds, frankly, adorable. 

"All right, out with it." 

"Out with what?" Sherlock asks and John rolls his eyes. 

"Everything you haven't been telling me." 

Greg and Sherlock share a glance, before the DI pulls a chair over from the desk and takes a seat. 

"Benjamin and Emily Wistrom have been charged on four counts of murder, three counts of kidnapping, and two counts of attempted murder, among a plethora of other colorful things, which I won't bore you with now." 

"Attempted murder?" 

"Us, you idiot," Sherlock clips, but John can hear the warmth under it. And the relief. 

"Git," he replies, managing to rein in another eye roll as Mrs. Hudson sniffles and presses a tissue to her nose.

"Connor's been asking for you," Greg says hesitantly and John sighs.  

He hadn't wanted the baby to see him in the hospital. He wanted to spare him the fear of the wires and the beeping and, more importantly, the bruises which have since gone from a mottled purple to a sickly yellow-green. The boy's been in Mycroft's care and John misses him fiercely; more than he ever thought he would when they took the case, but now the case is over. He doesn't want to think about what comes next because the thought of a potential separation is too painful and he's in enough of that already, thank you very much. 

"Mycroft will bring him by this morning," Sherlock states, finally perching on the arm of the couch and allowing a hand to brush by John's ankle. 

"Is that the best idea?" he asks, ignoring the way his heart rate picks up at the light touch, but Sherlock merely scoffs. 

"Come now, John. You hardly look as bad as you think you do." 

"Ta very much," he chuckles, watching the rhythmic motion of Sherlock's fingers against his bone. He's not even sure Sherlock realizes he's doing it. Hardly a moment has gone by when the other man hasn't been connected to him in some way, ever since that first night in the hospital when he crawled into bed, curled around him, and slept the sleep of the emotionally exhausted.

John doesn't mind the new physical aspect of their relationship. Wouldn't mind going a bit further, truth be told. But a touch on the back or a brush on the ankle is enough for him. 

For now.

xxxxxx

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as Connor babbles at the passing London traffic, but he never takes his gaze from his phone where he reads an email from Anthea detailing the kidnapped children's acclimation with various guardians. It's a shame to be sure and his least favorite part about his job, but Mycroft can only thank fate and proper intelligence that Sherlock, John, and Connor did not meet the same end. 

"Nooooo," Connor yells when they drive by the park without stopping. Mycroft made the mistake of taking him to feed the ducks yesterday, an act which Sherlock will  _never_  learn about, and the boy has not stopped attempting to quack since.

The car seat has become a permanent fixture in his government-issued vehicle, an odd sight if there ever was one. The storage unit in the armrest also has a spare sippy cup and a packet of crisps for emergencies, next to the loaded weapon.

The things Mycroft Holmes does for his little brother's happiness. 

The incessant squawking and newly acquired juice stains are all worth it, though, for the gasp that leaves the boy as they pull up in front of 221B. 

"Da!" he yells, sticky hand smearing against the window and little legs kicking in the air, desperate to be released from his Britax prison. 

"Yes, yes, your father is inside. Both of them, in fact," Mycroft drawls, stowing his phone in his pocket as he reaches over to unbuckle the child. 

Connor is automatically reaching out, ready to be pulled into Mycroft's waiting arms with a giddy "Uhc!" which is as close to "Uncle" as he's been able to get, much to Sherlock's chagrin. He's been pushing the moniker every time the three of them have spent time together over the last few days. 

"Yes, yes," Mycroft replies, trying to look sterner than he really feels. He hasn't held a baby this size since he was eight and the child was Sherlock. It's... nice. 

"Da, Pa, Da, Pa, Da, Pa," the boy says over and over as the driver grabs the nappy bag from the boot and follows them in the door. The litany continues until they’re through the foyer and trudging up the stairs with Connor bouncing more and more the closer they get to the living room at the top.

It’s deadly silent on the other side, but Mycroft knows it’s likely because the men inside are awaiting his imminent arrival. He sees Lestrade first, standing by the desk with a wide grin on his face, and even the surly government agent finds himself holding his breath for what’s about to come next. And sure enough, the minute Connor’s eyes clap on John reclining on the couch, a gasp escapes his little lips and he nearly nosedives for the man who’s visibly working to keep his emotions in check.

“Da!” Connor cries and Sherlock swoops in just in time to catch him and pull him to his chest as he walks over to the couch. 

“Gently now, yes?” his brother murmurs with far more tact and paternal care than Mycroft anticipated. “Daddy’s hurt.”

“Boo boo?” Connor asks, curious gaze immediately clocking the purple splotches still marring John’s face near his watery eyes.

“Yes, boo boo,” Sherlock replies, “but it’s all right.” He bends down, holding the child a bit like Superman as he gently places him on John’s chest. “Make sure he doesn’t kick your ribs.”

“Hello, love,” John whispers into the boy’s hair, pressing a fierce kiss on his forehead. “I missed you.”

“Da,” Connor murmurs, scooting himself further up John’s chest (which causes a grunt and a wince from the good doctor) so he can bury his face in the man’s neck.

And that’s how they stay, the two of them: the man who saved his brother more times than Mycroft can count and the child who was handpicked to share the color of his hair and his brother’s riotous curls; John’s penchant for forming attachments and Sherlock’s curiosity of the world as a whole. Which means he’ll likely grow up to be the best of both of them: sharp yet soft. Calculating yet warm. If all goes according to plan.

Sherlock clears his throat as he passes by him on his way to the kitchen and Mycroft takes that as his cue that he is meant to follow as they tuck around the corner of the sliding door. 

“Um, Connor looks well," Sherlock murmurs. "It seems you’ve taken good care of him.”

Mycroft frowns as his brother resolutely looks everywhere but at him. “Yes, well. He’s a very easy child. You would know that if you spent more time with him.”

“I’m trying to say thank you,” he groans. “Could you put me out of my misery, say you’re welcome, and we’ll move on?”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft quickly replies, saving both of them the sentimental hogwash that extended periods in John Watson’s presence seem to bring out in them.

“Are the children settling in?” Sherlock asks and Mycroft arches an eyebrow.

It’s a question he never would have asked just a few months ago. It’s a question that wouldn’t have even crested the ridge of that incredible mind of his.

“Yes. Two are with grandparents. One is with an aunt.”

Sherlock nods and smiles softly as John’s chuckle at something Connor did echoes throughout the flat.

"We could have done more,” he murmurs after a moment and Mycroft frowns.

"You've done enough." 

Sherlock shakes his head, but he holds up a hand to halt whatever self-recrimination he’s about to spew.

"You saved Edgar Abbott and Daniel Hanson. They clearly would have been the next target. And sacrifices would have continued to be made in the name of the game, just to get you to play along."

Sherlock moves to the door and Mycroft follows, watching him watch them, curled together on the couch while Greg reads some silly book aloud.

“John’s fine. Connor’s fine. It was a job well done, Sherlock.”

His brother turns to him slowly, a smug smile playing at his lips. “Is that… _pride_ I detect in your voice?”

“Let’s not dwell on it, shall we?” he replies, rolling his eyes before focusing back on the tableau in the living room.

This is it, he thinks. The events of the next few hours will determine his brother’s future and that of Dr. Watson, and there’s nothing – no manipulation, no last minute pardon, no guiding hand – that he can use to help Sherlock now. He is well and truly on his own.

Perhaps not quite, though.

Connor picks his head up and his studious gaze travels across the contours of John’s face, brow creased in consternation, tongue peeking out in between his lips. His little finger reaches up and gently traces the bandage at John’s temple.

“Ow?”

“Little ow,” John replies, already a natural at traversing baby speak.

But then Connor scoots up again and presses a sloppy kiss to John’s cut, pulling away and nodding firmly, as if to say _All better now._

Yes, Mycroft thinks as he once again watches Sherlock watch John.

All better now.

xxxxxx

Connor's head is heavy on Sherlock's shoulder as he carefully ascends the steps to the newly-converted nursery, the sleeping child drooling slightly on his £150 button down.

Frankly, he can’t be arsed to care which is a whole new feeling in and of itself.

He lowers the rail of the cot and leans over to carefully place the child on the mattress. Connor stirs, little arms reaching out to grab onto phantom treasures, before settling once more. Sherlock lets out a breath and pauses for a moment, brushing a lock of that curly golden hair off of the boy’s pale forehead.

He could get used to this. This domesticity. The child is asleep, water is boiling in the kettle, and John is downstairs (shot, yes, but within shouting distance all the same).

He had built a fire earlier in the evening – a whole new experience when one has a toddler who doesn't quite understand the concept and is consistently drawn to the flames – and Sherlock hurries back down to stoke it before John attempts to and does himself a further injury. 

He should have known the stubborn man would go ahead and take care of it anyway.

"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock hisses as he rushes over only to be too late. John has pushed their chairs together and is collapsing into his own, propping his feet up on Sherlock's where it sits opposite like that drunken night so many, many months ago. 

"Ahh," John sighs, quite smug. "Much better." 

"You shouldn’t be doing that,” Sherlock frowns as he jabs the poker violently into the fire, despite the fact that it looks like John already did so before _rearranging_ the _furniture._

"Was getting tired of the couch. S'fine. Only ripped two stitches." 

" _What_?" The poker goes clattering to the floor.

"Sherlock, I'm kidding,” John replies with a fond look. “Hurt like hell, but I'm much more comfortable now." He wiggles his socked toes on Sherlock’s chair just to prove it. “Come sit.”

“No,” Sherlock replies petulantly. “I preferred the sofa.”

“Well if you’re up…” John trails off, craning his neck and Sherlock follows his gaze to the cabinet which houses the whiskey and immediately shakes his head. 

"Absolutely not. You're on enough painkillers to level a small horse." 

"Just a bit." 

"You're a _doctor_." 

"Therefore I know that a bit won't kill me." John crosses his arms over his chest and winces. It’s a silent standoff, but John is injured and John is, well, John, so of course he wins. With a huff, Sherlock trudges to the kitchen and yanks open the cupboard, pulling the bottle down and pouring two fingers for himself and one for John.

“Happy now?”

John takes a sip and groans in bliss. “Very.”

Sherlock gently lifts John ankles and sits in his chair, letting the other man’s feet settle in his lap. John smiles at him softly and Sherlock clears his throat, pretending that the sudden flush of his cheeks is due to the sip of alcohol he has yet to take.

The air is heavy with all they’re not saying – they’ve not had a moment alone since that first night in the hospital when John had whispered “Stay” and Sherlock had complied.

He’d done a lot more, in fact. _Said_ a lot more:

_“I love you.”_

He thinks ( _hopes_ ) John was in too much of a drug-induced stupor to remember that particular admission, but he also never mentioned the fact that his wedding ring had magically appeared on his finger the following morning. It currently catches the light from the dancing flames every time John lifts the tumbler in his hand to his lips.

Of course, John isn’t the only one still wearing his ring and Sherlock feels its weight like an anchor, dragging him down below the depths.

"Truth or dare,” John murmurs after a quiet moment and Sherlock snorts.

"You've got to be joking." 

"Being shot means the invalid gets to pick the games," he says, gently kicking Sherlock with his foot. "And it sure as hell won’t be Cluedo. Truth or dare." 

"Ugh, fine," he replies with the sigh of the long-suffering. "Dare." 

"Seriously? Dare? Well, shit, now I have to think of something. Could've sworn you'd go for truth. All right.” He frowns and drains the rest of his admittedly small glass. “Pour me some more.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You have to. Rules of the game.”

“Wanker,” Sherlock murmurs yet he rises all the same, placing John’s feet in the chair and snatching the glass out of his hand. He brings his own for a top up too, though he’s still got plenty left. It’s looking like it might be shaping up to be that kind of a night and a bit of liquid fortification won’t hurt.

Much.

“Here,” he replies, shoving the refilled glass of alcohol back in John’s hand. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” John replies as Sherlock takes his seat once more, feet back in his lap.

“I never liked any of your girlfriends."

John barks out a laugh. “That’s not a truth. That’s a fact!”

“Same thing.”

“Not even Sarah?”

Sherlock considers for a moment. “Sarah was tolerable. Handles a kidnapping remarkably well.”

John hums in agreement. "By the way, when I say 'truth,' it means you have to _ask_ me a question, which I then must answer truthfully. You can't just blurt out any old anecdote no matter how rooted in fact it is." 

Sherlock smiles slyly. "Next time." 

John laughs and slides down in his chair a bit, toes digging into Sherlock’s side. "Truth or dare.”

"Truth,” he replies, though it comes out more like a croak.

John glances down and, though the smile is still present, Sherlock knows that whatever he’s about to ask next will change the course of the evening.

"Why did you want me to forgive Mary so badly?" 

"John, we've been through this – " 

"Why, Sherlock? And I want a proper answer this time.”

He sighs and picks a piece of lint off John’s sock. "I did it to protect you. And…” he glances up, “I truly did think she made you happy." 

"She never could have made me happy,” he fiercely replies. “Not after what she did." 

"You forgave me for throwing myself off a building,” Sherlock says, trying to ignore the way John still reflexively flinches at any mention of the fall. “I figured the situation with Mary would progress in much the same way." 

John tilts his head. "Yes, but you hurt  _me_." 

Sherlock frowns, ignoring the pang in his chest. "I’m well aware. And?" 

"Mary hurt  _you_."

They stare at each other as Sherlock’s heart proceeds at a gallop, attempting to pump blood to organs and limbs which he’s convinced have failed. Oh.

Yes, the course of the evening has definitely changed.

“Truth or dare?” he finally whispers and John immediately replies, “Truth.”

He worries his lip for a moment, because something has been troubling him ever since that night in the shipyard. And as John takes another healthy sip and since the game requires an answer, now seems like as good a time as any to ask it.

“Did you ever doubt I would come for you?”

John looks surprised. “In the warehouse? No.”

“Truly?”

“Not ever.”

“But we had fought. I said – I said such awful things.”

“Sherlock,” he begins, nudging him with his toes to ensure he’s paying attention. “It isn’t the first time we’ve said awful things to each other and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But know this: nothing will ever make me believe you’re not coming home to me. And nothing you say will ever keep me from doing the same.” He presses his foot again against Sherlock’s rib cage. “Got it?”

But Sherlock can only nod, throat gone too tight to reply with anything verbal. They’re quiet for a moment, each absorbing all that’s been said and Sherlock cannot quantify the relief he feels at knowing that John will always come back. No matter what, John will be there, as he always has been.

“Truth,” he finally says, saving John from asking the question. After all, the time for dares seems to be over.

John clears his throat and surreptitiously wipes the back of his hand across his face. He at least has the advantage of blaming any unforeseen dramatic displays on the drugs and the pain. Sherlock only has the booze and a lifetime of repressed emotions to fall back on.

“Did you mean to say something else on the tarmac?” John finally asks and Sherlock regrets this game immensely.

His silence prompts a follow up. “I mean, it can’t have been ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

“It wasn’t. And yes I did,” he whispers and John smiles in way that carefully walks the fine line between hope and sadness.

“And what was it?” 

Sherlock shakes his head, immensely relieved that the phrasing of John’s sentence has given him an out. “My turn. Truth or dare.”

“Oh you bastard,” John grins, but there’s no bite behind it. “Truth.”

Sherlock holds his breath, whispering the words so they may have as soft a landing as possible against John’s already battered defenses: “Do you blame me for your daughter’s death?”

The smile immediately slides from John's face and he swallows hard. “No. God no, Sherlock.” He sits up, grunting in pain as he plants his feet on the floor. Sherlock misses the warmth in his lap acutely.

He had always wondered. Adeline Elizabeth Watson had lived barely a month before the seeds Mary had sewn had grown to ensnare her, bringing Addy down with her.

The call from Mycroft had come at 1:07pm on a Sunday afternoon: _“He needs you now, more than ever.”_ And Sherlock had answered the call, bringing John home and tending to his wounds, both seen and unseen, as best he could.

“If I were to blame anyone,” John says, bringing Sherlock back to the present, “it would be Mary. And if I really wanted to self-flagellate, I’d blame myself. But not you. Never you. Okay?”

There’s truth in his eyes, shining through alongside something else Sherlock is too frightened to name. He nods and takes another sip of his whiskey. Gulps it, more like.

“Truth.”

John smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Were you really coming back after six months?”

He exhales and slowly shakes his head. “No.”

“No?” John asks, not understanding. “It was going to take longer?”

“No, I mean I wasn’t coming back at all.” He licks his lips and glances down at the glass in his hand. “It was a suicide mission.”

"What?" John’s eyes are wide and he’s staring at Sherlock with a vulnerability that looks out of place on those battle-worn features.

“I was meant to die in Eastern Europe. Mycroft gave me six months. Tops.”

John opens his mouth but nothing comes, face working to understand something that he dare not comprehend. Then his gaze sharpens and his eyes harden as he asks abruptly, “Did you mean to die on that plane?”

“That’s two truths,” Sherlock manages but John eyes are tearing up with a fury he hasn’t seen in quite a long while.

“I don’t give a damn, Sherlock Holmes, did you mean to kill yourself on that plane?”

“Yes,” he finally whispers and John’s features crumple. He slumps back against the chair and covers his face with his hands, breath ragged as he silently shakes.

Sherlock wants to reach out, place a palm on his knee or pull one of those hands from his undoubtedly wet cheeks, but he doesn’t. He waits until John takes his moment, collects himself, and faces him once more. 

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. You don’t go where I can't follow. Do you hear me?” His tone is all Captain Watson and Sherlock can only nod.

“Only if you return the favor,” he replies, gesturing to John’s jumper which hides a bullet hole and multiple fractures.

“Agreed,” John breathes, reaching forward with a hiss to place his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Agreed. Truth or dare.”

“It’s my turn.”

“Don’t care.” John smiles and Sherlock huffs.

“Dare.”

“Come here,” he says quietly, gently tugging on Sherlock’s trouser leg.

“Why?”

“Take off your shirt.”

Sherlock’s stomach knots, but John can’t mean what he thinks he means. Can he? “Dr. Watson, you’re trying to seduce me.”

John laughs despite the situation and reaches out for Sherlock’s hand. “I can’t believe you just made a pop culture joke…” he trails off and inhales, “But I need you to turn around,” he finishes quietly.  

Sherlock inhales sharply. Oh. “That’s technically two dares. You’re getting very greedy tonight.”

“Sherlock – ”

“Yes,” he snaps before continuing more quietly. “Yes, okay.” He stands in the limited space afforded him between the two chairs and slowly goes to work on the buttons of his shirt. John watches his fingers work, gaze continually finding his eyes and silently asking _Okay?_ And he is, he finds. He’s been bottling this up for so long that he needs someone to share the burden. And John has always been game.

Now unbuttoned, the shirt slides over his shoulders and falls to the ground, and he shivers in the evening chill for a moment before slowly turning and baring his back for John’s studious, careful inspection.

He hears the sharp inhale first – it is, after all, only the second time that John has seen his scars. Even when caring for him after the bullet wound, Sherlock had been meticulous. But now his careful planning as all been blown to bits as John’s gentle touch rests on his hip, tugging him a bit closer to the chair. The rough pad of his fingertip traces the whip marks and the knife gash; the burns and the shoddy stitching, as if attempting to heal every wound he was not there to treat.

“Truth,” Sherlock whispers because he knows John is going to ask anyway. This is giving him permission.

“What happened in Serbia?” he asks softly and Sherlock exhales slowly.

“Not tonight.” His fingers find John’s on his hip and grasp tightly. “Someday, but… not now.”

John presses his forehead to Sherlock’s lower back and breathes hotly against the skin there. “Okay,” he murmurs, pulling away and rubbing his thumb in small circles over Sherlock’s hip. “Okay.”

Sherlock turns and tugs his shirt back on, before running his fingers through John’s graying hair. "Truth or dare." 

The older man smiles and rubs at his tired eyes, the alcohol and drugs and emotions finally taking their toll. "Dare." 

"You should turn that on," Sherlock says, nodding towards the phone still lying on the side table where Lestrade returned it from evidence earlier that day.

John smiles. "Why? Do you think someone's trying to reach me? Because I’m pretty sure the only people who contact me are you, Lestrade, and Mycroft. You’re here, Lestrade’s still on the case, and Mycroft’s probably listening in as we speak.” 

But Sherlock remains quiet, not even chuckling at the Mycroft joke, so John does as he's told and powers up the phone, eyes widening as the mobile begins to vibrate with a multitude of incoming messages. Sherlock knows what they say and in what order they were sent so he sits back and watches as the words affect the beautiful contours of John's expressive face: 

 **You've been gone**  
**for three hours and**  
**forty-seven minutes.**  
**It's hateful. - SH**

 **I fear I've made rather**  
**a spectacle of myself**  
**on your voicemail.**  
**\- SH**

 **As you know, I prefer**  
**to text. - SH**  

 **If you’re not actually**  
**in mortal danger, I need**  
**you to tell me. – SH**

 **Don’t do this to me.**  
**Please. – SH**

 **We need milk. It will**  
**have gone bad by the**  
**time we return home.**  
**\- SH**  

 **I'll get it if you come**  
**back. Does that kind**  
**of bribe work on you?**  
**\- SH**

 **I need you.**  
**\- SH**

 **I’ll watch those superhero**  
**movies you’re always going**  
**on about. – SH**

**If I suffered through James**  
**Bond, I’m sure I could suffer**  
**through The Avengers. – SH**

 **Stupid name, by the way.**  
**-SH**

 **Come back.**  
**\- SH**

 **I love you. I need you.**  
**Come back. – SH**

He watches John's throat work as he gets to the end; watches his hands shake and his thumb move as he scrolls through the messages for a second time.  

“Sherlock,” he breathes, finally looking up and pinning Sherlock to the chair upon which he sits. “I thought I dreamed that. I thought I imagined you saying those words.”

Sherlock shakes his head and slides out of his chair to kneel at John’s feet. The other man’s eyes go wide and he giggles a little hysterically.

“Well this isn’t a sight I’d ever thought I’d see.”

“Ask me again,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning in and rubbing small circles on John’s thighs over his trousers.

John frowns in confusion, before it clicks into place, features softening on the edge of that hopeful smile once more. “What did you mean to say on the tarmac?”

Sherlock swallows once, then twice, before John’s hand comes down to thread their fingers together. “I’m in love with you.”

John makes a sound that could be a laugh but is likely a sob, and leans forward as much as his injuries will allow, grabs Sherlock’s shirt, and tugs him closer.

“I love you too,” he manages before their lips crash together, hard and yet soft. Insistent and yet patient. Sherlock makes a noise he’ll never admit is a whimper as his hands come up and grasp at John’s jumper, while John’s fingers thread through his hair.

It’s everything he’s wanted and it’s immensely overdue. But perhaps they needed to wait this long – to experience all of the hurt, pain, and suffering they endured over the last few years. If only to realize that true happiness can only be found in the arms of the other.

John pulls away and pushes Sherlock’s hair off of his forehead. “I love you so much,” he breathes, leaning in to place a small kiss on Sherlock’s swollen lips.

“Losing you would be unbearable,” Sherlock murmurs, pressing his face into John’s chest as he oh so carefully lays a hand on the bandages beneath John’s shirt. 

John’s palm comes to his chest, covering the matching scar on Sherlock’s sternum. “I mean it. Don’t go anywhere I can’t follow.”

“Promise,” Sherlock breathes, pressing a kiss to John’s forehead and standing on creaking joints. “Come to bed.” He holds out his hands and John allows him to gingerly tug him to his feet.

“To sleep?” John asks, although there’s a playful and somewhat naughty look gracing his face.

Sherlock can’t help but flush as he wraps an arm around John’s waist. “To sleep. We’ll be more adventurous when you’ve not got a hole in your abdomen.”

John giggles again, but his eyes are earnest as he glances up and asks, “Promise?”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow as love, lust, and a fierce protectiveness fight for dominance within him.

“Oh I guarantee it.”

xxxxxx

John is in an exorbitant amount of pain when he wakes, but Sherlock’s body is warm next to his side, which is its own brand of narcotic, he thinks. He inhales the scent of poncy shampoo and something distinctly _Sherlock_ as he rolls over as best he can and buries his nose into the other man’s shoulder.

Connor is already carrying on a conversation through the monitor to Paddington Bear, no doubt, and John smiles as he presses his face further into Sherlock’s shirt, ignoring the twinge in his side.

"I'll get him,” Sherlock murmurs when Connor’s cries go from pleasant to _Come get me_ and John listens with a love and fondness he can’t quantify as he hears Sherlock greet the boy good morning through the monitor.

Getting out of bed is rough, but he manages to put a dressing gown on as he stumbles to the kitchen and flicks on the kettle.

Sherlock appears a moment later with Connor on his hip, staring at John as if he’s just attempted to run the London Marathon.

“What are you doing? I can do that!” he hurries over and takes over tea, Connor reaching out for John as he passes. “No, no, Daddy is injured.”

“Sherlock, I can hold him.”

“What if he kicks you?”

“I’ll handle it,” he promises, wanting to feel the weight of the boy in his arms. “Hello, love,” he greets as Sherlock (reluctantly) hands him over. “Did you have a good sleep?”

Connor nods and proceeds to shove Paddington Bear in his face, much to John’s delight. He pads over to this chair (still shoved up close to Sherlock’s) and takes a seat, carefully arranging the boy on his less sore side.

He doesn’t know what comes next, now that the case is over and the baggage that both he and Sherlock carry has been unloaded. Mycroft will no doubt be by today. How could he think that after he had allowed ( _taught_ ) a child to call him ‘Daddy’ he could possibly give him up?

The fear that suddenly grips him is so visceral, he gasps and swallows down the tears that sting his eyes. Sherlock is at his side in a moment.

“What’s wrong? Did he kick you?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” he quietly admits as the other man places the cup on the table beside him.

“But I fixed it just the way you like it.”

“I’m not talking about the tea.”

Sherlock inhales sharply, panic seeming to emanate from every pore in his body. “I thought you wanted – ”

“Not us, love. Of course I want us,” he soothes, taking Sherlock’s hand. “I meant Connor. I don’t think I can give him up.” John finally looks up at him, expression pained. “I can’t give him up.”

Sherlock visibly swallows and takes an aborted step forward. “I don’t want you to.”

“What?” 

“I want… I want to keep him too.”

And those six words make John’s brain short-circuit. “What?” he asks again, because nothing is really computing.

“I want to raise him. With you. It’ll make you happy. It’ll make _me_ happy.”

John had been primed for more of a fight, which is why he is so completely, utterly wrong-footed. And of course, Mycroft Holmes, insufferable git that he is, chooses _that_ moment to announce his arrival.

“Morning,” he drawls, trusty umbrella hooked over his arm, as Connor cries “Uhc!”

“You can’t have him,” is John’s kneejerk response and even Sherlock seems to stand between his brother and the child, as if daring him to intercede.

“I didn’t think I was coming to collect him,” Mycroft replies, smiling smugly.

The brothers stand off for a moment, communicating silently as only they can, before Sherlock curses under his breath.

“You bastard. You planned this.”

“I have no idea what you could possibly mean.”

“You chose the perfect child – ”

“No, I chose a perfectly _ordinary_ child.  _You_ made him extraordinary,” Mycroft replies, but John can only focus on the file hanging limply in Mycroft’s hand.

“What’s that?”

Mycroft merely smiles as he raises the folder in question. “They’re adoption papers.”

John’s lips part in astonishment as Sherlock murmurs, “You knew.”

“I knew of your remarkable ability to form attachment, despite my advice to the contrary, increasingly half-hearted though it may have been,” he replies, gaze finding John before glancing away again.

Sherlock crosses his arms. “This has been you from the start.”

“Oh come now, Sherlock. Not even I’m that clever.”

“You’re  _exactly_  that clever,” John replies, grip tightening on Connor and, after a moment, Mycroft smiles.

“Possibly. But I did not plan four murders in Dorset, if that’s what you’re thinking. Happenstance, I assure you.” He raises the file again as if to say _Well?_ and Sherlock turns to share a glance with John.

"Could we have a minute?" John asks and Mycroft raises his eyebrows in much the same way he had on the tarmac, but departs without a word, heading downstairs to probably beg for a decent cuppa from Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock pins John with his gaze. “I don’t see the problem.”

John scoffs and presses his nose into Connor’s hair. The boy is being remarkably silent, as if he knows his future hangs on the conversation about to take place.

“Sherlock, this is a big step.”

“I realize that.”

“Do you? Because just last night, we were admitting that we loved each other for the first time.”

“Yes, and?”

“ _And_ now you want to adopt a child together.”

“I still don’t see the issue, John.”

And he can’t help but laugh, because of all the situations to find himself in, this really isn’t that surprising. They never do things in halves, he and Sherlock Holmes. “Where would we put him?”

“You’d move into my room, obviously,” Sherlock replies and John gapes.

“Obviously.”

“You said so yourself: you’ve gotten used to sleeping in bed with me. I have no wish to return to the way things were.” And then he looks remarkably vulnerable. “After last night, I didn’t think you’d wish to either.”

“I don’t,” John quickly urges, grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Not at all. But, Sherlock, there’s a big difference between embarking on a relationship and adopting a _child._ We’re – we’re becoming _fathers._ ”

“I realize that too.” Sherlock smiles and the joy on his face is infectious. And for the first time, John finally sees how badly Sherlock wants this.

"This changes things. You can't just – you can't just get bored and go off and leave me to do this alone." 

“I won’t.”

“Connor comes first. Before any experiment, any crime, any mystery. Some days, you’re going to have to sacrifice one for the other and Connor must always, always win.”

“Yes.” His answer is emphatic, but there’s still a tiny part of John, a small part that remembers massive sulks and angry rants and abandoned dinners and neglected flatmates, that doesn’t believe him.

“Sherlock – ” 

"John Watson, you are the most fascinating thing I've ever encountered. And it would be my honor to raise this child with you.”

“Oh,” John breathes, because those remaining doubts have just been rendered utterly silent. “So… we’re doing this?”

Sherlock crouches down in front of the chair and runs his fingers through Connor’s curls. The boy giggles and reaches out to grab Sherlock’s nose. “We’re doing this.”

Sherlock’s gaze finds his and he leans forward to place a hard kiss on his lips that allays every fear John has. That promises to fulfill every hope John wants. He pulls away and John glances up to find that Mycroft has found his way back to their doorway, the all-knowing, ever-meddling arse.

“Well?” he asks and John stares at Sherlock’s face for a moment – at the expression radiating love and trust – and he replies without removing his gaze.

“Do you have a pen?”

xxxxxx

It isn’t until later that night, when he and John are nestled side by side in bed with Connor playing on the floor next to them, that he really realizes what has happened that day.

He became a father. And he has the papers lying on the kitchen table to prove it.

“Okay?” John asks. Perhaps he could feel Sherlock go tense beside him. 

“Never better.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock finally turns and presses his face to John’s neck, letting his lips linger. “Yes.”

John shivers, but whatever spell had been brewing is broken as Connor tugs on Sherlock’s trouser leg, the only bit of him he can reach, and waves a piece of paper in the air.

“Da?”

“For me?” John asks and Connor nods.

“Hold on,” Sherlock murmurs, bending down and picking Connor up under the arms so he can hand John the drawing he’s scribbled.

“That’s lovely,” John replies as he looks at it, truly studies it even though it makes no sense, as any good father would. “Come here,” he murmurs, and Sherlock brings the boy closer so John can press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

Sherlock lowers him back to the floor in the hopes that he’ll tire himself out soon. It’s nearly his bedtime, but it’s almost as if he understands the massive implications of today. The boy is wired on so much energy that Sherlock had to go back through his mind palace and make sure he didn’t accidentally give him caffeinated tea.

“What do we tell everyone?” John eventually asks and Sherlock frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. The clients. Oh Christ, Harry?”

“We’ll tell them what we want to. Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, we tell them the truth. They deserve that much. Plus, it would be hard to hide. Harry, we tell her what you want. She’s your sister, after all. And the clients, well. Are you going to post something on the blog?”

John scoffs. “I’m not putting our child on the blog so some nutter can come and exploit him.”

Sherlock inhales sharply.  

_Our child._

He leans forward and presses a kiss to John’s lips, still marveling at the fact that this is something he’s allowed to do. Encouraged, even. “Then we take it on a case by case basis.”

“Yes,” John replies, pressing his own kiss in turn and threading their hands together.

They’re quiet for a few moments and Sherlock rests his head on John’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"Think we'll ever do this for real?" John eventually asks, lifting Sherlock's hand and placing a kiss on the ring that still sits on his finger.  

Sherlock looks up in concern. "I thought this was for real." 

John’s heartbeat knocks loudly on his sternum underneath Sherlock’s ear. “It’s as real as you want it to be.”

Sherlock buries his face in John’s jumper and speaks the following words to his chest. “I’ll call the City Clerk’s office in the morning.”

John is silent, but his grip around Sherlock’s waist tightens. “Seriously?”

“Well, I’ll have Mycroft do it.”

John laughs and then groans in pain, Sherlock gets him more medicine ( _“Paracetamol only. I want to remember this.”_ ), and they entwine themselves on the bed once more, this time bringing Connor to join them. Sod the cot. They’ll get him reacquainted with his bedtime habits later.

And they fall asleep like that, all three of them, in a bed built for two but usually inhabited by one.

But no longer.

 


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their routines settle. Their intimacy grows. And life, somehow, returns to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dears, it's been a pleasure. x

For three weeks, they take no cases.

John heals slowly, Connor acclimates quickly, Sherlock studies continuously. He memorizes the way John holds Connor close despite favoring his injured side. He pays attention to the amount of apple slices John gives the boy in the morning. He records Connor's sleep patterns and makes a note that giving him chocolate for breakfast might be considered a bit not good. 

He begins taking the right side of the bed simply so John won't have to lay on his injured ribs to hold him in the night, which is something, Sherlock learns, that John likes to do. Sherlock doesn't mind it so much either. 

He installs a gate at the top of the stairs so Connor doesn't tumble down and inadvertently pay Mrs. Hudson a visit. John gets him calling her "Gram" and she bursts into tears the first time she hears it. 

They make love for the first time on a Thursday evening and it’s awkward and messy and sloppy and wonderful. Sherlock let’s out a string of curses that would make even the most hardened soldier blush. John thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

They introduce Connor to Sherlock's parents on a weekend shortly thereafter (after much badgering from John) and Mummy Holmes immediately wraps her arms around the boy, tugging him close even as he squirms in her arms. Eventually, she reaches an hand out and pulls John down into the fray, pressing a teary kiss on his cheek and whispering something only meant for his ears. Daddy Holmes clasps Sherlock on the back, his silent way of saying  _Well done_  as Mycroft tries (and fails) to look disdainful in the corner. 

Connor gets caught playing with the deerstalker and John snaps a picture of it. He’s in nothing but his nappy, too-large hat falling forward over one eye. John has a few copies made – one for the flat, one for the surgery, one for Mrs. Hudson. Another smaller copy goes missing and he pretends not to notice it reappear in Sherlock’s wallet two days later.

Their routines settle. Their intimacy grows. And life, somehow, returns to normal. 

Or as normal as it can be for the three Baker Street boys. 

xxxxxx

When Connor is two, they have their fiercest fight to date. 

John watches, positively seething as Sherlock vomits water on the concrete balustrade he's just hauled the man over. 

"You... stupid,neglectful, _careless_ arsehole!" he yells, panting as water drips into his eyes. "Did you even think before you dove in?" 

Sherlock retches again, bringing up more of the Thames, and John thinks that they'll have to go to A&E to get him a jab, which will add at least another hour or two to their evening jaunt. It is the absolute  _last_ thing John wants to do. 

Connor will be expecting them. Connor needs to hear the end of _Winnie-the-Pooh_  and he won't go to bed if John is not there to read. Poor Mrs. Hudson, he thinks and rubs at his forehead, pushing his wet hair from his face. 

Sherlock is still coughing and, frankly, it serves him right.

"It was the best opportunity we had," he croaks after a moment and John scoffs, clenching his fists at his sides. 

"I should hit you, I really should," he hisses, pacing the length of the pier in an effort to expend the energy that's threatening to tear him in two. 

"Why are you so upset? I got the weapon," Sherlock replies, tossing the waterlogged gun on the pavement - a key piece of evidence to lock a particularly nasty serial killer away. But that's not John's priority at the moment. 

"I don't give a shit about the weapon – " 

"John, it was the only way – " 

"Then you find another one!" he roars, coming to a stop in front of Sherlock's kneeling form. "You can't do this anymore! You're a father now!" 

"What do I have if I don't have The Work?!" 

Something inside John cracks. "Us, you bastard! You have us!" 

"John – " Sherlock begins, stricken, as if only now just realizing his mistake. 

"No, you know what? Sod this. Sod it."

He marches down the pier, leaving Sherlock to hoarsely call after him. The wind is bitter against his frozen skin and Greg approaches, looking just as angry as John feels. 

"What the hell were you thinking?" 

"Ask him," John spits as he continues on his way, but the detective grabs his arm as he passes. "Don't, Greg." 

Greg lets go and raises his arms in a calming manner, probably realizing that going for a swim was not exactly on John's agenda for the evening. "At least let us give you a ride home." He gestures to Sally who stands behind him and raises her keys in invitation. 

After a moment, John nods. "Yeah. Yeah, all right." 

He's wrapped in blankets and bundled in the car. Sally, thankfully, is quiet on the way, leaving him to stew with his thoughts. The word 'idiot' crops up more than a fair few times. 

"Hey," she murmurs after god knows how long. "We're here."

He glances up to find that, yes, they are indeed outside of 221B. Anthea is already standing by the door with a bag of antibiotics, looking bored.

"Meddling menace," he groans, managing a smile of thanks for Sally as he stalks stiffly up the walk, bundling the blankets around him. "Couldn't have left well-enough alone, could he?" 

"Didn't want to make you late for Winnie-the-Pooh," she coolly replies, before winking. "There's only enough for one here. Sherlock will still have to visit A&E." 

A juvenile part of John is happy about that.

"Thanks," he mutters, taking the bag and wrestling the key into the lock. By the time he turns, Anthea is gone.

The hallway is so warm, his knees nearly buckle as his body finally registers just how exhausted and drained he is. 

"John?" Mrs. Hudson calls, exiting 221A. "What on earth – " she begins as she gets a good look at him, but she trails off at the thunderous look on his face. He manages to smooth it by the time Connor comes tearing around the corner in his footie pajamas.

"Dada!"  

"Wait just a minute, young man," Mrs. Hudson instructs, getting an arm around the little bundle of energy. "Your father needs to have a long, hot shower and nice cuppa, and then you can have a cuddle." 

Connor tilts his head in that inquisitive way that reminds John of Sherlock as he looks him up and down, nose scrunching at the mess. 

"Swim?" 

"Yeah, Daddy went for a swim," John replies, bending down to place a kiss on the boy’s head and trying not to drip on him. 

"Papa?" he asks, looking around John's leg, but John's constant shadow is nowhere to be found. 

"Coming later," he replies sharing a look with Mrs. Hudson who tuts under her tongue. 

“What's he got himself into now?" 

"Nearly getting himself - and me - killed."

"Gracious," she murmurs, hand to her chest. "Well, you go up and have that shower and the young master and I will busy ourselves making tea." 

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson,” he murmurs, bending down to place another lingering kiss in Connor’s hair. “Then Winnie-the-Pooh?”

“Pooh!” Connor cries, immediately bouncing once more.

The smile the boy brings to his face remains there until well after he’s done with his shower and wrapped in his pajamas and dressing gown. He and Connor finish reading about the adventures of Tigger and Piglet and a bear named Pooh on the sofa and the boy barely manages to keep his eyes open, finally snoring softly into John’s t-shirt by the time he closes the book.

John lifts him deftly, cuddling him for a moment before ascending the stairs to the nursery. He’s getting big, their boy, and John tries to remind himself to stop and take notice every once in a while. It’s not easy considering he shares his life with a human tornado.

“G’night, love,” he whispers, laying Connor down in his cot and pressing a kiss to those ever-riotous curls.

He pads back down, stretching his sore muscles and popping his back from the evening’s unexpected activities as he brushes his teeth and all but collapses into bed despite the fact that it’s barely gone half past nine.

He must sleep, because the next thing he registers is the bed dipping and a cool arm brushing up against his own.

As the last few months (including the case that started this all) have taught him, Sherlock is nothing if not clingy when in bed. Which is why John knows he’s at least registered something is a bit not good when those long, pale arms don’t immediately squeeze around John’s waist.

He keeps his eyes closed though. He wants to see how this will play out.

A cold nose rests against his shoulder, hot breath warming the still-chilled skin beneath. “Forgive me.”

The words are so quiet that, for a moment, John isn’t quite sure he heard them. He’s not even sure he’s  _meant_ to hear them. Not yet anyway.

“I don’t know how to do this. Be a partner. A father. Be someone that’s needed.”

Tears prick at the corners of John’s eyes and Sherlock must know he’s awake. He  _must._ And if he doesn’t the shuddering inhale he takes next will certainly clue him in.

John finally opens his eyes, but continues to stare at the ceiling, letting Sherlock’s finger gently tug at the bottom of his t-shirt.

“What if I hadn’t been there, Sherlock?”

The man next him holds his breath and buries his face further into John’s shoulder.

“You would have drowned. And they would have combed the river for your body and Lestrade would have pulled up in front of the flat in his panda car to tell me the news. And I would have known just by the look on his face that you were gone.” His voice breaks. “And then Connor would have asked where you were…” Sherlock’s hand takes his in the dark and squeezes, hard. “And I would have had to tell him.”

“I’m sorry, John,” he breathes, audibly swallowing as he shuffles closer and throws an arm around John’s waist, entwining their legs as if trying to meld himself to him. 

"You could have  _died_!" John whispers fiercely into the dark, yet he turns on his side so they’re face to face. "You made me a promise and you nearly broke it." 

Sherlock’s eyes are exhausted and red, tears clinging to those beautiful eyelashes. “Please forgive me.”

John closes his eyes and a tear splashes on his cheek. He feels Sherlock’s thumb come up and brush it away a moment later. "I can't do this without you,” he admits.

“I don’t want you to,” Sherlock replies.  

John rolls onto his back, bringing Sherlock with him this time and settling him under his chin. He’s still mad, still hurt. Still  _terrified_ , but they’re together now and no one will be jumping into the Thames again anytime soon.

“Did you get your jab?” he asks after a moment and Sherlock nods, making a contented noise as John drops a kiss into those curls he loves so much.

“Did you finish Winnie-the-Pooh?”

“Yeah. I think Connor likes your voices better.”

“I do do a stellar Eeyore.”

And John can’t help but laugh - a barking sound that's half joy, half relief, bringing tears to his eyes once more because  _Jesus Christ_ he cannot lose this man again. 

But then Sherlock whispers that he loves him and John holds him a bit tighter, heartily returning the sentiment. 

They fall asleep tangled up in each other and never take a swim (on purpose) in the Thames again.

xxxxxx

When Connor is four, he goes to pre-school and Sherlock develops a sudden, acute case of separation anxiety. 

Connor, on the other hand, is perfectly fine. Excited, even. The traitor. He skips between them, holding tight to a finger each, little cap bouncing with every pavement crack he hops over. 

"Sherlock, we've got to let him go," John says for the third time since they left the flat, squinting in the rare bit of sun, his gaze exasperated yet fond as he glances over at his partner. 

"I don't know why. I can teach him everything he needs to know," Sherlock replies petulantly, scowling at a passing mum for good measure.

"Love, you deleted the solar system," John points out and Sherlock huffs. 

"Well, he doesn't  _need_ to know that Pluto is a planet, now does he?" 

"It's not anymore, actually." 

He stops. "What?" 

"A planet. It's not one anymore." 

"Who the hell thought  _that_ was a good idea?" he spits and John smirks.

"Scientists, I presume." 

"Well, the scientists are  _wrong."_

"Wrong!" Connor concurs, hopping up and expecting his fathers to hold him off the ground, which they do with practiced ease, before slowly lowering his feet to the concrete. 

Sherlock continues to frown because that was the planet he learned. The tiny one at the end all on his own. He  _identified_  with that one. 

"Yes, dear," John chuckles eventually, using his free hand to tug on Sherlock's lapel and place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He pulls away and smiles in that way that both infuriates Sherlock and makes his stomach tie in the best kind of knots. 

He huffs and stomps the final few steps towards the front of the school, but always remains near enough to not stretch Connor's tiny arm. He must admit that the boy looks smart in his tiny blazer and hat, but as he watches older children tease and greet each other, a familiar feeling that he had spent years repressing comes back with a vengeance.

Embarrassment. Shame. Loneliness. 

His son cannot be made to feel those things. He won't stand for it. 

"Connor, we're going home," Sherlock announces, tugging the boy away. 

"No, we're not." John grabs his arm and manhandles Connor's tiny rucksack from Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Yes, we are. He'll be much safer at home with us, where he can conduct experiments under the strictest supervision and not have to share his chocolate biscuits at lunch."

John's forehead creases and he tilts his head and studies him in a way that always makes Sherlock feel completely flayed open. "Safer? Sherlock, what's going on? Mycroft personally vetted this school. No one can sneeze on the premises without him knowing." 

He manages a smile, but it's not Connor's safety that has him tempted to bend over and put his hands on his knees, though it is, of course, a constant concern. 

"I hated school," he finally admits. 

"Hated school?" John chuckles. "With that brilliant brain of yours, I assumed you'd love it."  

Sherlock stares out at the children once more before glancing down at Connor, practically vibrating to join them. "It wasn't always a gift." 

And with that, understanding washes over John's face. "Sherlock." 

"He'll get teased," he continues, gently straightening Connor's cap. "He'll be too ugly, too handsome. Too clever, too thick." He finally glances up. "Two dads." 

"Oh, love," John breathes, stepping forward and cupping Sherlock's cheek in his hand. 

He stiffens for a moment, throwing a self-conscious glance around. They’ve never been the most demonstrative of couples, but then he sees the warmth and steadiness in John’s eyes. This doesn’t bother him. And they cannot let it bother Connor either. So he leans into the touch, closes his eyes, and sighs.

“He’ll get bullied," John eventually murmurs. "Kids can be mean, awful things, but they can also be wonderful allies." He nudges him gently. "Either way, at the end of the day, he’ll always have us to come home to.” He lifts up on his toes and brushes his lips across Sherlock's cheek. "To ease the blows, wipes the tears." 

"Bake the cookies?" 

John chuckles. "Bake the cookies." 

Sherlock has found that he doesn't actually mind baking. Not cooking, just baking, and usually only with Connor. He lives for John's fond expression when he comes into the kitchen to find them both covered in flour.

"There will be bigots and bullies and bad men that have particularly nasty vendettas," John continues, "But in the end, it's just the three of us against the rest of the world, yeah?" He tugs on Sherlock's sleeve and the man swallows and, eventually, nods. 

He looks down at Connor, bouncing as he continues to hold onto each of their fingers, keen eye tracking the other boys and girls as they file into the school. The boy is not Sherlock. He has his intellect and his withering glances, but at heart, he’s all John. Perhaps not biologically, but he’s absorbed each of their qualities – each of their traits. And miraculously enough, mostly the good ones. Sure he has epic sulks and a temper that sometimes rivals John's, but he also loves fiercely. Unconditionally. He will not have a problem making friends.

Sherlock just doesn’t necessarily want to share.

“Just the three of us against the rest of the world?” he asks and John smiles.

“Yep. Always." 

"That means we can take him home, right?" 

"Absolutely not," he laughs, before crouching down and straightening Connor's tiny tie. "All right, love?"

"Yep." 

"Be good?" 

"Uh huh." The boy is barely paying attention to his father and neither, apparently, is Sherlock since it takes him a beat longer than it should to realize John is staring at him with a pointed glance.

He clears his throat and crouches down as well, smiling genuinely when Connor immediately leans forward and collides with Sherlock's chest. 

And in that moment, with his son’s arms around his neck and John's hand warm and steady on his back, he thinks that letting go might be something he actually learns how to do.

xxxxxx

When Connor is six, he is kidnapped and John has never known fear like this in his entire life. 

 _"Bad men that have particularly nasty vendettas,”_ he had once said to Sherlock.

He really does hate being right. 

The call comes when he’s at the surgery – one of the rare, occasional shifts he still actually takes. Judy, the nurse assigned to the front desk, knocks on the door with a frazzled look on her face. To this day, when he closes his eyes, he can still see it.

“Dr. Watson, there’s a man on the main line for you. Said it was urgent.”

“Not Sherlock?”

“No,” she smiles, “I’ve learned his particular greeting by now.”

“Which is none at all?” he asks with a wry grin as he strides over to the phone on the wall of the examination room. “Ta, Judy,” he replies as she closes the door behind her, wondering what disaster Lestrade has waiting for him – but it’s not Lestrade at all. “Hello?”

“John,” is all Mycroft gets out before John’s baser instincts kick into gear. 

“What happened?” He can tell just by the tone of his voice that something has gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“Connor is gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone?” he asks, voice low, the fingers of his right hand curled into a fist at his side.

“The car I sent to pick him up arrived precisely on time at 2:04 in the afternoon. When Connor did not emerge by 2:10, my man went inside and was informed that Connor had already been picked up at 1:37pm.”

“What? By whom?”

“Caucasian male. Mid-thirties. Light hair. Medium-build.”

John shakes his head as if that will give him some clarity. “How does this happen? You vetted this school yourself!”

“The man had all of the paperwork. There didn’t appear to be a struggle – ”

John slams his hand down on the examination table and it rattles the nearby metal instruments. “Who has my son, Mycroft?”

There’s a pause. It lasts a lifetime.

And finally, Mycroft says three words John doesn’t think have ever left his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Oh Jesus, Mycroft. Jesus Christ.” John puts his hands on his knees and wills himself to not go into cardiac arrest. “Where’s Sherlock?” he asks, straightening once more. Braced for battle.

“At Bart’s, but he’s not answering his phone.”

“I need to get to him,” he says, removing the stethoscope from around his neck and shoving his wallet into his pocket.  

“I believe your ride is already waiting for you.”

He glances up and, sure enough, Greg is standing at the door, grim yet determined expression on his face. And if nothing else, that look is enough to make John believe all of this is actually happening.

“Get Sherlock and come straight to the Yard,” Mycroft’s voice instructs. He sounds a thousand miles away. “John?”

“Yeah?” he croaks.

“I’ve got my best men on it. We’ll get him back.”

“Yeah.” He fumbles with the phone, fingers thick and clumsy, and it clatters to the floor. “God, Greg,” he manages as the DI quickly retrieves the receiver and hangs it back up on the wall.

“He’ll be home by suppertime,” Lestrade fiercely replies, but John can hear the tremor beneath it. And why shouldn’t he be affected? He is Connor’s godfather after all.

It isn’t until he pulls his phone from the pocket of the jacket he left hanging on the back of the door that he notices the twenty-three missed calls, seventeen texts, and nine voicemails. He doesn’t dare listen to them. He isn’t sure he ever will.

The ride to the Bart’s is just a blur of passing scenery with a perpetual undercurrent of  _do something,_ accompanied by the incessant wail of the sirens. It’s only been a matter of minutes since the call came in, but John feels its weight in hours. Days. It’s been months since he dropped Connor off at school that morning on his way to the surgery with a kiss on the head and a “be good.”

The boy had smiled that beautiful smile and waved over his shoulder, already running full-tilt at the doors, little rucksack bouncing behind him.

The memory makes his eyes burn. Lestrade drives faster.

By the time they get to Bart’s, Sherlock knows. Mycroft had probably called Molly, who handed the phone to Sherlock, who probably hung up on Mycroft, so Mycroft had to call back and tell Molly, who told Sherlock, which is why when John enters the morgue, Sherlock is hurling a rather expensive-looking microscope against the wall.

“Mycroft, how the  _hell_  could you let this happen?” he roars into the phone, spinning around and going absolutely silent when he catches sight of John and Lestrade in the doorway. “Find him,” he eventually barks before hanging up. It’s a miracle he doesn’t throw the mobile too.

Lestrade nods at Molly and John notes she’s already got tears streaming down her face. God, he really can’t do that yet. He’s barely keeping it together as it is.

He and Sherlock stare at each other for moment, silently recognizing that their greatest fear is coming to pass.

“Come on.” He holds out his hand and Sherlock’s breath audibly skips before he steps forward and takes it, tugging John out the door none too gently.

He vaguely hears Lestrade tell Molly that he’ll keep her updated, but John’s just doing everything in his power to not dislocate his shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “Sherlock… Sherlock!”

His husband abruptly comes to a stop and John nearly runs into him, steadying himself on those firm shoulders and inhaling the scent of coffee, antiseptic, and home. 

John swallows and runs his thumbs back and forth over the wool of his husband’s coat. “We have to do this together because if you leave me on my own, I will not survive this. Yeah? So, whatever’s going on in that brilliant brain, let me in.”

Sherlock looks away, Adam’s apple bobbing, lips pinched as he starts and stops multiple sentences. Finally the words come tumbling out and he holds John’s forearms in a fierce grip. “I don’t know what’s going on. Nothing’s working. I can’t – I can’t  _think_. I can’t focus.” He claws at his hair, looking downright feral, and John gently takes his hands and squeezes them.

“We will bring him home,” John promises and he hopes to god the vow comes out steady.

“C’mon, gents,” Lestrade murmurs, brushing past them into the still-running car.

Sherlock does not let go of his hand, which makes getting in the backseat more than a bit cumbersome. He uses his right hand to text singlehandedly and clings to John with his left. John uses his grip to anchor himself to the reality of the situation when all it seems his brain can process is  _This isn’t happening._

 _Daddy and Papa are coming for you_ , he thinks over and over as the city rushes past them once more.

The Yard is in total chaos by the time they arrive with Sally at the center barking orders to anyone that dare gets within shouting distance. Outwardly, she is the epitome of calm professionalism, but John can see the pinch of worry in her brow and the hands that clench with the need to do something productive. He reminds himself that he and Sherlock are not the only two who care about their boy, and if the way every officer seems to have dropped their present business to jump onboard the search is anything to go by, Connor is clearly a very cherished junior member of Scotland Yard’s finest.

Mycroft stands in the corner, poring over files that Anthea hands him in tandem and Sherlock immediately breaks away from John to accost him.

John can’t hear what he says – the only sound he registers is the pounding of his own heart and the memory of Connor yelling ‘Bye, Daddy!” earlier that morning as he ran for the school’s front door.

He inhales sharply at the sudden pain in his chest, glancing up gratefully as Dimmock pushes a paper cup of tea into his hand and wordlessly walks away. The liquid sloshes as his hand shakes.

John is terrified, but Sherlock – Sherlock is terrifying.

He spends a solid 45 minutes stalking the length of the room, practically growling at anyone and anything. Lestrade threatens to lock him up if he doesn’t calm down and allow them to work, but it only serves to fuel his fire.

“You must have news.  _Something!”_ he yells, but Mycroft merely shakes his head. It’s sad and solemn and utterly useless. “Then what is the point of you?”

John doesn’t even have the energy to scold him for the outburst.

“Shall I find him on my own then?”

“No, because the last time someone you loved was taken,” Mycroft hotly retorts, “you rushed off and John nearly died.”

“Oi!” John yells, grabbing his brother-in-law by the tie and slamming him up against the wall, because he won’t have him blaming Sherlock for anything that happened in Dorset. “Those words will never pass your lips again, are we clear?”

Mycroft looks suitably contrite, but it seems to have done the trick. Sherlock is docile once more, Mycroft’s accusation having taken what little fight he had left.

The Yard has quieted, watching the familial feud with surreptitious, yet curious glances.

“Apologies,” Mycroft eventually murmurs and John lets go of his shirt and carefully backs away, bumping into Sherlock, whose legs finally give out. John just manages to turn and catch him before he crumples to the ground.

“Whoa, hey. Easy, easy.” John gently lowers him to the carpet, signaling for Lestrade to grab his other arm.

“’m fine” Sherlock whispers into John’s neck and John shares a glance with Lestrade over his husband’s bowed head.

“Love, when was the last time you ate?”

“Don’t need food,” Sherlock replies. “Need Connor.”

John sighs and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s hair as Sally magically procures a pack of crackers.

“Can you stand?”

“Gotta get him back.”

“We will,” John replies, kissing his forehead once more as Lestrade helps him get Sherlock to his feet. “We will.”

They get Sherlock to a chair and Sally uses some choice words yet manages to convince Sherlock to consume two crackers.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” John murmurs and Lestrade inhales sharply.

“I have.”

John tilts his head in question and Lestrade stares at the lino. “When you were gone. Taken. He just… imploded. Had to ban him from the investigation. ‘Til he went off on his own.”

John swallows, watching the shadows pass over Lestrade’s face. He hasn’t asked them about that time – about the hours that he was missing. Tied up, beaten, and bleeding. He made the mistake once of bringing it up at home and he watched with a heavy heart as Sherlock’s beautiful features shuttered. He wants to be mad at Sherlock for running off to find him without immediate backup, but he can’t be, because truth be told, he got there just in the nick of time.

“Boss, we got something!” Sally suddenly calls and John’s heart leaps to his throat as Sherlock’s hand immediately clamps down on his bicep.

John glances at him, reading fear, adrenaline, and hope flicker like a silent film across those lovely features. “Let’s go get our boy,” he breathes, bringing his other hand to brush across Sherlock’s knuckles.

It’s incredibly quick and yet entirely too slow, rescuing their son. The abductor is Simon Exley Sheridan Jr., 37, whose father Sherlock help send to prison for fraud. Sheridan is in a high position with deep pockets and very low morals. The job is streamlined, but just sloppy enough for Mycroft, Lestrade, and their men to get a hold on it. He and Sherlock are allowed to come, but John is not given a weapon.

In hindsight, that was probably for the best. His fist alone did enough damage.

Connor returns to them unharmed, save for a minor bruise here and there, and they spend the next two days holed up in 221B, only opening the door for tea with Mrs. Hudson and a card Greg brings for the boy signed by all the Yard.

Sherlock delivers a blistering press conference the following day and John stands proudly at his side, shoulders back, daring anyone to test the threats Sherlock is making quite clear for the world’s press to report on.

Ever their child, Connor remains unfazed by his brush with the criminal classes. If anything, he’s just excited to have a story to tell at school the following Monday.

It takes Sherlock and John a bit longer to bounce back.

But they do.

xxxxxx

When Connor is 12, he gets into a fight with John that threatens to level the entirety of Baker Street.  

Sherlock had known that the words would one day inevitably come, but he had always assumed they'd be aimed in his direction. He never, not once, predicted that John would bear the brunt of their barbs. 

" _You're not my father!"_ Connor screams before turning on his heel and stomping down the stairs. 

Sherlock's breath has stuttered in his chest and he watches as John physically flinches from the verbal blow. 

"I'll go after him," he murmurs and John nods, but says nothing, staring at the space Connor occupied just moments ago. 

Sherlock doesn't move for a bit – he knows he'll be able to track Connor anywhere and regardless, both he and John are pretty sure where the boy went. He’s known this city like the back of his hand since he was two. He has the homeless network and every CCTV camera in London watching his back, not to mention a fair few shopkeepers, restaurant owners, and proprietors. Right now, Sherlock’s concern is John, who continues to stare like a man who’s just received a death sentence.

John finally steps forward and grabs their son's coat from the rack, holding it out for Sherlock to take as he clears his throat. "He'll need this." 

Good John. Lovely John. Always thinking even when others don't offer the same courtesy. 

“I’ll bring him back,” Sherlock replies quietly, pressing a hasty, but no less fierce kiss on John’s temple before turning and flying down the stairs after their son.

His phone pings the moment his feet hit the pavement –

 **Heading towards the usual.**  
**-MH**

And Sherlock rolls his eyes because of course Mycroft would stick his big nose in their business. He’ll never admit it, but he’s grateful, though. Mycroft’s meddling has brought the people he loves home on more than one occasion.

He pauses and makes a swift about-face to Speedy’s to pick up a couple of Connor’s favorite pastries. A head start will at least let the boy jump on the train ahead of him. No sense trying to catch up now. After all, having this conversation in a tube carriage would be more than a bit awkward and Sherlock can only handle so much emotional distress in any given week.

Pastries well in hand, he strolls to the Baker Street station, quickly firing off a text with Connor’s intended destination to John, who’s no doubt pacing the flat and attempting to ward off Mrs. Hudson’s offers of tea. The dear lady can’t make it up the stairs anymore, but she’s come up with inventive new ways to pester them, not the least of which involved a bullhorn.

The ride to Westminster Pier is quick and Sherlock tries out opening lines in his Mind Palace. Each scenario ends worse than the last – with Connor storming off and never speaking to them again. After all, John is not the only one who’s technically (biologically) not Connor’s father. The thought continues to trouble him on his walk across Westminster Bridge, past the London Eye, and all along South Bank until he approaches the bench upon which Connor sits. The very same bench he and John brought the boy to after he rode the Eye for the first time. They shared ice cream and pored over second hand books at the stalls. The battered Paddington Bear pop-up they purchased that sunny day still resides on Connor’s shelf.

Something in his chest clenches and he clears his throat, forcing his feet to traverse the final few steps as he slides onto the bench next to his son. John is so much better at this.

“Took you longer than usual,” is Connor’s sulky reply and Sherlock rolls his eyes, dropping the pastry bag into his son’s lap.

“You don’t deserve that, you know,” he says as Connor slowly pulls out the perfectly flaky apple tart.

Connor swallows and stares out over the Thames. “I know.”

The reply catches Sherlock off-guard and, not for the first time, he has to remind himself that Connor is much more attune to the workings of the human emotional spectrum than Sherlock could ever hope to be.

He supposes they have John to blame for that. And to thank.

“Is he okay?” the boy asks as he rips off a corner of the pastry, examining it for a moment before popping it in his mouth. He grimaces and Sherlock suspects the guilt is somewhat dampening the flavor.

“What do you think?” he says not unkindly.

Connor’s face does that awful pinching thing that happens when he’s trying not to be upset and failing horribly, and he glances down, inhaling a shaky breath.

“When we first got you,” he begins, watching Connor tense out of the corner of his eye, and it’s no wonder. John’s always been very open to Connor’s questions, asking about those days so long ago when parenthood was merely a means to an end for Sherlock. But Sherlock rarely mentions that time. While he’s become accustomed to sentiment, he still shies away from its talons. It’s not that he’s ashamed or afraid. The words themselves just seem so inadequate.

He clears his throat and tries again: “When you first came to us, I didn’t know what to do. I – I held you like a feral cat.”

Connor’s laugh comes tumbling out of him and he coughs around a piece of pastry. Sherlock thumps him on the back without thought, though he smiles at the memory.

“I had absolutely no idea what to do.”

“But Dad did?”

Sherlock shrugs. “He was a natural. I think you sometimes forget that he’s a doctor and a soldier. A natural caregiver and protector. You were no different.”

Connor looks away and picks at a fraying patch on his jeans. “But you learned?”

“To an extent,” he replies. “Probably shouldn’t be giving you tarts just before dinner, but allowances must be made.”

Connor smiles, but it fades quickly. “I didn’t mean it. What I said.”

“I know that.”

“Does Dad? He probably hates me,” he mumbles and Sherlock sucks in a breath.

“That is not physically possible. Your father loves you more than life itself. And no matter what you do, even if it’s say things that hurt him more than the shot he took to the shoulder – ” he pauses as Connor flinches – “nothing will change how he feels for you. That’s apparently how this works.”

The corner of Connor’s mouth quirks up and he stares out at the passing boats. “Firsthand experience?”

“Indeed. If he hasn’t left me by now, he won’t ever. Lord knows I’ve given him enough reasons to go.”

Connor seems comforted by that and he holds out the tart for Sherlock to take a bite.

The glaze melts on Sherlock’s tongue and he squints into the fading sun.

“Did we ever tell you about Adeline?”

“What?” the boy asks.

“When you were five, you asked who the baby was in the picture in the corner of the bookshelf. The one with your father. We didn’t give you an answer.”

Connor frowns, but comprehension quickly dawns. The picture has been there since Connor’s first days in 221B. Sherlock had found the photo on John’s phone and had it printed and framed. John cried the first time he saw it, but now, it’s such a part of their history that it almost blends in with the scenery.

Almost.

“Her name is Adeline? Who is she?”

This is really a story for John to tell, and Sherlock will surely leave the details to him, but Connor’s old enough now. Perhaps not for the whole truth, but a vague notion of it at least.

“Your father’s daughter.”

The boy’s mouth pops open, half-chewed tart sitting on his tongue. It would be comical in any other situation, but not here. Not now. “Dad had another baby?”

“With his wife.”

“Before you?”

Sherlock nearly bristles at the thought of anyone being in John’s life before him, but manages to stay focused on the task at hand.

“I was around,” he says. “But your father and I were not what we are now.”

“Married?” Connor dryly replies and Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“Together.”

“Where is she?” he asks quietly, as if he already knows the answer. And perhaps he does. He is their son after all.

“She died before you came to us.”

“How come no one told me?”

“You weren’t ready,” he says simply.

“And I am now?”

“You’re ready to comprehend just how badly your father wanted you. How much he _needed_ you. And I don’t mean to imply that you were a substitute, because you most certainly were not. But you helped him heal when he was at his most broken. You were the only man for the job, too. It pains me to admit it, but I believe he was beyond my help.” He glances down at his folded hands, failure never an easy thing to accept, particularly when it concerns John. “I’m telling you this now because you are ready to understand that biology has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you are _ours._ ”

And that does it. Connor’s features twist and a strangled sob escapes his throat. Sherlock has his arm around him in an instant, pulling him towards his shoulder and letting Connor’s tears soak his shirt. He remains quiet, though, slightly rocking back and forth as he places the occasional kiss in Connor’s hair.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that. Long enough for the sun to dip and the air to chill. John was right about the coat.

“Come on. Your father will worry.” Indeed, he’s felt the telltale buzz of his phone in his trouser pocket three times in the last ten minutes. Frankly, he’s impressed John managed to hold off this long.

He feels Connor nod before the boy pulls away, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes. Sherlock uses the moment to shoot a quick text off to his husband.

 **Back home soon.**  
**-SH**

They hail a cab near the bridge and ride in silence for most of the way. As they make the turn onto Baker Street, though, Connor asks the question that Sherlock knows has been on the tip of his tongue ever since the revelation of Adeline.

“How did she die?”

“We’ll tell you when you’re older,” he quickly replies, having already had the answer waiting. He’s certainly heard John say it enough. He smooths back the boy’s hair to ease the disappointment, though.

“Not ready yet?” Connor asks and Sherlock shakes his head.

“Not yet. But soon.”

The trudge up the seventeen steps is a slow one, with Connor easing his pace with every foot that brings him closer to the flat. Sherlock, of course, knows how John will react. Connor, however, has not needed John’s forgiveness as often as Sherlock has.

The door creaks open and John glances up from his chair, slowly closing the book in his lap and looking cautious and hopeful and just relieved to have them both home. He waits for Connor to make the first move, to decide in which direction this reunion will go, even if it ends with a slammed bedroom door. He must be leaning towards the latter because the genuine surprise that crosses his face when Connor quickly crosses the room and practically falls into his lap, arms going around his neck, makes Sherlock’s throat go tight.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Connor murmur and John closes his eyes and brings his arms around the boy, hugging him fiercely.

“Me too, love.” He kisses hair that’s more straw-colored now than yellow. Much like John’s. “Me too,” he repeats, resting his cheek on their son’s head and locking eyes with Sherlock in silent thanks.

In the days and weeks that follow, the relationship between the three of them has never been stronger.

And if the picture of John and Adeline magically finds a more prominent placement on the mantle next to the skull, no one asks why.

xxxxxx

When Connor is 16, Sherlock gets injured, badly, and Lestrade watches as John and Connor struggle to keep the other one afloat. 

Mycroft, of all people, had tasked the detective with picking the boy up from school, as John was otherwise indisposed at his husband’s bedside. And as soon as Connor enters the front office to which he’s been called and claps eyes on Greg, the smile on his face drops, only to be replaced by what can only be classified as sheer dread.

“What happened?”

Kid’s too damn observant for his own good. “You’ve gotta come with me.”

“Uncle Greg – ” he begins, but Greg gets an arm around his shoulders and steers him out into the hall, away from the secretary’s prying eyes.

“Your Pa had an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” Connor’s voice is high and reedy. Greg forces himself to remain calm as they exit into the cool October air. 

“He was chasing a suspect and got hit by a car.”

“Oh Jesus.” Connor stops just feet from the illegally parked panda and puts his hands on his knees. “Is he alive?” he asks, breathing deeply.

“He is. They were wheeling him into surgery when I came to get you.” 

“Is Dad with him?”

“Always is. C’mon, kiddo.” Greg nods to the passenger seat and Connor practically throws himself in. Neither he nor Greg mentions that he hasn’t called him ‘kiddo’ in years.

The drive to the hospital is tense with Connor demanding answers and Greg telling him what he can. Truth be told, it all happened so quickly, he seems just as in the dark as the boy. Sherlock had been maybe thirty feet ahead of John, who was maybe fifty feet ahead of Greg, who had been waylaid by the second suspect. The first suspect sprinted into the intersection and Greg didn’t even see the impact. Just heard the screeching of tires, the honk of a horn, and John’s bloodcurdling, _“Sherlock!”_

It’s not something he thinks he’ll ever un-hear. But Connor doesn’t need to know that.

He barely manages to get the car into ‘park’ before Connor is opening the door and sprinting into A&E. One of his men is waiting by the entrance and Greg merely tosses him the keys and leaves the car running in an effort to catch up with the boy. Much like his father has done on countless occasions, he’s verbally berating the poor nurse at the front desk who seems to take it all in stride admirably. The boy is clearly distressed. She’s not holding it against him and for that, Greg is thankful.

“Down here, kid,” he grunts, grabbing Connor by the elbow and steering him through the double-doors on the left.

“I’ll come back and apologize to her after I see Dad,” he mumbles and Greg smiles despite himself, squeezing the back of the boy’s neck.

“I know.”

And that’s John influence coming through. Speaking of which –

Greg sees him pacing at the end of the corridor, one hand on his hip, the other pinching his brow, his military bearing taking precedence as rational thought leaves and instinct takes over.

John must sense them coming because his head shoots up a moment later and he allows himself a moment of unguarded emotion before schooling his features and marching down the hallway towards them.

"Dad – " Connor gets out before all but collapsing in John’s arms.

"I’ve got you, love," John replies, turning his head and pressing a hard kiss on his temple. "I’ve got you." 

Connor’s already got two inches on John yet he folds in on himself like a child. He’s too old for the coddling – not Greg's opinion, but rather the boy's. Last time John had tried to kiss him on the head, he'd ducked under his arm with a groaned, "Daaad." 

Now, though, he lets his lanky, shaking body be held by strong arms whose hands stroke up and down his back.

John meets his gaze over the boy’s shoulder and mouths, “Thank you.”

Greg manages a nod and gestures that he’s going to get some tea, leaving father and son to their moment.

He returns fifteen minutes later with a tray containing three takeaway cups of dreadful brown water to find John finally seated with Connor next to him, using his shoulder as a pillow. He passes the cups out and takes the seat opposite in the tiny waiting room, which is shockingly devoid of people. He suspects Mycroft has a little something to do with that.

The first hour is fraught with fidgeting. John stands to pace some more before trading spots with Connor who stalks the admittedly short length of the room. Greg remains the only one seated – the rock in the center of the surging sea.

Sally joins them, silently taking a place next to Greg and bringing coffee from the organic shop near the Yard. Molly arrives shortly thereafter with food, which no one touches. Mycroft pops in and out, alternating between talking on the phone outside (probably wrapping up Greg’s own case) and murmuring with the hospital staff in quiet corners.

It’s dark by the time the surgeon wearily exits the OR in his scrubs, but he offers a slight smile as he approaches their small band keeping vigil.

“We’ve set his leg, but had to remove his spleen. He had some internal bleeding which gave us some trouble, but with rest and proper rehab, he should be back on his feet in no time.”

John breathes out harshly as Connor sags sideways into him. John’s left arm comes around the boy’s waist to brace him, while he holds his right hand out to shake the doctor’s hand.

“Thank you.”

“He’ll be out of it for a bit, but we’re going to move him to the ICU just for a night or two to keep an eye on him. You should be able to see him soon. Family only, though, I’m afraid.”

John’s response is swift and incontrovertible. “They _are_ family.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Of course. The front desk will get you visitor passes and a nurse will be out to let you know when he’s in recovery.”

As soon as the doctor turns and strides down the corridor, Connor wraps his arms around John’s neck, hugging him fiercely. Molly is hiccupping through her tears and Greg squeezes her shoulders as they watch father and son rebuild the foundations that had taken a mighty blow.

Within the hour, they’re led to the secured ICU where Sherlock lies in repose, skin nearly as pale as the sheet that covers him. John immediately goes to his side and holds his hand, but Connor lingers at the door, staring in overwhelmed fascination at the scene in front of him.

Greg knows what this is. It’s discovering that a man you once thought of as immortal is actually just flesh and blood. It’s a terrifying conclusion to come to, particularly when said immortal is one’s father. He carefully places his hand on the boy’s back and gives him a gentle push.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

Connor looks at him with wide, glassy eyes that seem to ask _Is it?_ And of course he’s so rattled. This is all new to him. He wasn’t around (thankfully) for the drug dens and the semtex vests and the Fall and the shootings. He hadn’t been a witness to John’s self-destruction when Sherlock threw himself from the roof of this very building or to the dismantling of Sherlock’s Mind Palace when John took a bullet to the abdomen. This fear, this worry, is brand new and Greg wishes he could have spared the boy that.

John is leaning low over Sherlock, whispering something only for him to hear. Eventually, he straightens and beckons Connor over and the boy goes willingly, though he remains at the foot of the bed, gently holding the toes of Sherlock’s good leg and looking a moment away from tears.

Greg stands watch at the door, leaving the detective in the care the only doctor that’s ever mattered. Eventually, Sherlock’s eyes flutter open and John laughs out a sob of relief, clutching his hand while Connor grabs his other.

“You all right, love?” John asks and Sherlock groans.

“Ouch.”

It causes Greg to laugh and it’s a much-needed sound – loud and light, brightening the room even for a moment. Given the amount of morphine Sherlock is on, some rather hilarious things continue to tumble out of Sherlock’s mouth ( _“You’re beautiful, John. Just as beautiful as that jar of pickled fingers.”_ ) and it’s only Greg’s love for Connor and his fear of retribution from John that keeps his phone in his pocket. 

John plans on staying the night, insisting that Connor go home and sleep in a proper bed. Given that he’s part Holmes and part Watson, Connor puts up a fight, but the diminutive army doctor wears him down, particularly after Greg offers to stay at 221B with him.

They’re each so exhausted that by the time they tumble through the door, they barely make it to their respective beds before they’re snoring soundly. And when they return early the following morning (because, like Sherlock, Connor is a morning person, the little bastard) they find John curled up in Sherlock’s hospital bed, sleeping the sleep of the emotionally drained.

Connor smiles and takes up John’s vacant chair, watching over his fathers with a steady and fond gaze. And, in that moment, Greg realizes that Connor is no longer the toddler who showed up in Mycroft’s office and turned their world upside down. He’s no longer the little boy who would go tearing through the Yard, yelling, “Uncle Greg, I caught a s’spect!”

Greg misses those days, but he’s rather looking forward to the ones ahead because, as Mycroft predicted all those years ago, Connor truly is the best of both of them and that will be needed in the days and weeks to come. 

Sherlock’s recovery is slow which is hard on the genius, harder on his husband, and the hardest on the wallpaper.

Connor, on the other hand, finds the massive sulks and barbed retorts hilarious, snippets of which he texts to Greg on a daily basis. Greg suggests he go into the family business and start a blog to mark the recovery progress of the world’s only consulting detective.

He has nearly a thousand followers by the end of the first 24 hours.

Sherlock blames John. John glares at Greg. Greg just smiles proudly.

xxxxxx

When Connor is 18, they pack him off to university and retire. 

Sussex isn’t London, but Mrs. Hudson has passed and Lestrade has traded in his gun for a pension. And frankly, the criminal classes just aren’t what they used to be.

John rolls over, groaning at the early morning sun that always seems to be in abundance in the country, and nearly comes nose to nose with Sherlock, still softly snoring away on the pillow next to him. He smiles sleepily and inches forward a bit so his nose brushes Sherlock’s cheek.

The former-consulting detective shifts and moans, but doesn’t open his eyes. He merely brings his hand up to wrap around John’s waist and tug him closer, letting his feet tangle up with John’s.

John loves every facet of Sherlock – the genius scientist, the dangerous detective, the vulnerable lover – but this Sherlock, this is his favorite. Sleepy, pliant, sentimental.

“You’re staring,” Sherlock eventually murmurs and John smiles.

“Can’t help it.”

Sure enough, Sherlock’s curls are wilder than Medusa, and now that he’s awake, the laugh lines around his eyes are more evident. He’s beginning to grey at his temples and his joints protest more often. In short – he’s beautiful.

“Softy,” Sherlock murmurs, shuffling a bit closer to bury his face in John’s neck, inhaling deeply.

“Guilty,” he replies.

The door creaks open and the pitter-patter of paws on the hardwood floor echoes around the bedroom.

“It’s your turn to walk Gladstone,” John murmurs and Sherlock shakes his head.

“Nope. Walked him yesterday.”

“He needs to be walked every day, love. We’ve been over this. It was one of the conditions outlined in the clause.”

“Still can’t believe you had Mycroft draw up a clause before we got a dog.” 

“Had to. Knew you’d leave me to do all of the work.”

Sherlock scoffs and the puff of breath against his neck makes John shiver.

“That didn’t happen with Connor.”

And the likening is so unexpected and yet so appropriate, John bursts out laughing. “You have me there.”

The bulldog whines and tugs at the covers, little legs too short to allow him to jump on the bed. It’s both the most pathetic and endearing thing John has ever witnessed.

“You get out of bed for the bees.”

“Bees are fascinating.”

“And dogs aren’t?” John asks, before giving in to the puppy’s whining, turning over, and scooping him up from the floor. The bulldog turns in a couple of circles before plopping down in between them and pushing his wet nose into Sherlock’s ear, making him yelp.

“That’s what you get. He knows you’re neglecting him.”

“Am not,” Sherlock replies, bringing a hand up to lazily scratch behind the dog’s ears.

John remains sitting, just watching the tableau and fervently wishing he hadn’t left his phone in his trouser pocket all the way across the room. He’d like to remember this image.

Sherlock eventually gets a hand around the dog and scoots him closer, snuggling him into his chest. It gives John such a sense of déjà vu that he gasps, causing Sherlock’s eyes to flutter open once more.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” John replies, clearing his throat. “You just used to hold Connor like that. You know, back when he was small enough to do so.”

A soft smile spreads across Sherlock’s face as he stares at his husband. “I remember.” He breaks his gaze to glance down at the puppy, whose tail begins to wag at the sudden attention. “Used to hold you like that, too.”

John smiles. “Still do.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, before shifting Gladstone to his other side and pulling John into his chest. “Much better.”

“Mmm,” John concurs, letting the silence wash over them once more.

Retirement is not as irksome as he believed it might be. Sherlock’s scientific side has kicked into full gear, letting the crime-solving fall to the background.

After his accident, it didn’t take much urging from John for Sherlock to want to take more of a backseat to the proceedings. Connor’s face in that ICU was all the motivation he needed. John feels a little stifled from time to time, not having the thrill of the chase, but there’s a local surgery and they’re happy to have him on a shift every now and then. It’s not pretending to be a ninja while running around Soho, but it’s Sherlock, and that’s all he needs.

“By the way,” he says after a moment, “Gladstone ate your Ferragamos.”

“Christ,” Sherlock mutters, before chuckling lowly. It rumbles in his chest and causes John to laugh as well.

“I told you not to leave them lying about.”

“I know.” It’s resigned and the closest he’ll ever get to admitting John was right. But then he asks a question that seems to catch them both completely off-guard. “Are you happy here?” Sherlock tenses, as if realizing that the words actually left his mouth, and John lifts his chin off his husband’s chest so he can look him in the eye.

“Of course I am.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, so John sits up further.

“Have I ever given you reason to think otherwise?”

“No, but it’s just – it’s – I once said you were addicted to a certain lifestyle…”

John inhales because the emotions of that night still simmer just beneath the surface. Sherlock had been bleeding out right in front of him, dying, and John hadn’t noticed.

“Sherlock,” he says, lacing their fingers together and resting them on Sherlock’s chest where, beneath a cotton t-shirt, lies a knot of scar tissue smaller than a 1£ coin, “ _you_ are my lifestyle.”

The smiles he gets in return is positively radiant as Sherlock lifts their interlocked hands and places a kiss on John’s knuckles before tugging him back down once more.

“Could do with fewer bees though,” John murmurs and Sherlock gasps.

“Bite your tongue,” he playfully snipes before leaning down and placing a kiss on those blasphemous lips. “At least Mycroft can't find us out here in the wilderness. Anything outside of London might as well be the Highlands.” 

John giggles for a moment before frowning and lifting his left hand. “Sherlock… did we ever remove the GPS trackers?”

Sherlock pauses. "Bollocks," he says after a moment before they both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter. 

Connor will be home on Friday night, expecting to do laundry and devour the contents of the cupboard. All of them, which is why John needs to go to the shops tomorrow and then probably again on Saturday morning.

Their son has a girlfriend that Sherlock doesn’t know about yet. Connor asked that John break the news before he gets there, but he wants one more day of peace with his husband before all hell breaks loose.

Sherlock will research everything about the poor girl’s family going back at least four generations before mocking up a flow chart to map the relationship’s impending doom.

He’ll alternate between sulks and manic pacing. He’ll play shrill pieces on the violin before launching into a dirge. And just when John’s headache will be on the knife’s edge of debilitating, he’ll switch to Vivaldi and play John to sleep.

In short, life is as it was. As it always will be. The three of them against the rest of the world.

Just with a few extra bee stings.

  

 

 

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Marchin On by OneRepublic.


End file.
